


The D.Va Touch

by FrenchyGKG



Series: Overwatch: Future Series [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Brainwashing, Dogfights, Gen, Identity, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Injury, Introspection, Kidnapping, Mecha, Personality Swap, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Redemption, Stranded on an Island, Teenagers, d.va best waifu, d.va is a cool girl but hana song isn't as much, d.va's mecha gives me headaches, island adventure BUT THEN not really, it starts off light but then it gets dark, more characters'll appear down the line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 31,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7112434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchyGKG/pseuds/FrenchyGKG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D.Va is captured and brainwashed by Talon, turned into another engine of destruction at their behest. Widowmaker sees, Widowmaker feels, Widowmaker acts. Redemption can come from strange places, and the hand that delivers justice can be unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

«You think they'd let me install that facecam I've been thinking about? The boys've been clamoring for that.»

«No way. The brass was already turning red when they allowed y'all to pimp your mechs. Then the internet streaming? Let's not even talk about that. That's way past their upper limit already, and I'm struggling daily to maintain those privileges.» Yong Park let out an exhasperated sigh at the other end of the line, the kind you picked up when you dealt with teenagers with far too much fame for their young egos and far too much firepower at the tip of their young fingers.

«What does it change, though? It's literally just a small camera pointed at my face! A. Small. Camera.»

«Girlie-»

«A. Small. Camera. Won't compromise the integrity of the mech at all, if that's what they're afraid of!» Another sigh, this time punctuated by the popping of bubblegum.

«Look, the answer's no. Tell your fans this'll have to wait, I dunno... You're pretty good at dealing with them, right? Do a movie ticket giveaway or something, they should like that.»

Hana chuckled. «It's been out of theaters for a month.»

«A goddamn promotion on the DVD, then. Whatever... I'll be seeing you in two hours, Hana. Don't even think of coming in late for a second, alright?» Data storage had progressed far past the point of DVD technology, but a fairly mind-boggling number of adepts swore only by these obsolete, fragile, impratical slices of plastic to satiate their thirst for visual entertainment. 

Something about the sound being better or the Illuminati spying on you, from what she'd gathered.

Yong's face vanished from the rectangular screen of Hana's cellphone, and the call ended. 

Good ol' Yong. Her manager and agent, busy arranging the matches, booking hostel rooms, taking care of every single little detail for her while she focused on the comparatively easier task of being the single best Starcraft II player on the planet. 

When the Korean government came a-knockin' on their door to recrut her into the MEKA program, he'd leaped on the occasion to sell himself as an all-encompassing expert on the subject of e-sports – and wouldn't you know, it'd worked! The man worked closely with the government now, with the added bonus of a comfy salary.

Okay then. Two hours. Let's see how many Starcraft games she could fit in here after getting ready...

*** 

Eight. She'd have gone for a ninth, but really, that'd have been pushing her luck – good thing she'd gotten her pink whiskers tatooed on, these'd always been a chore to paint right! A girlish impetus'd gotten her to varnish her fingernails, but these ten magical tools deserved as much for their overwhelming speed and precision.

Hangar 3 was akin to a beehive, abuzz with technicians and engineers busy with a thousand various tasks: the MEKA pilots stuck out like a sore thumb, a handful of younger people in colourful jumpsuits lounging about in their own little bubble – talking amongst themselves, listening to music, or even gesticulating in front of a levitating camera in Hana's case.  
Pre-streams were always a perfect excuse to goof around, and Hana never missed that excuse to get her fellow MEKA pilots some love in the eyes of her fans. Some didn't mind, some did. They were recruited for their skills, not how good they looked in front of a camera.

The Mobile Exo-Force. If she considered it like a family – because it kind of was -, then... she probably was the flashy older sister. Yep. The face of the group, the one everyone recognized, the one who appeared in advertisements and got starring roles in international blockbusters – D.Va. Something deep within her whispered to her ear that the others deserved more recognition, that this'd create a rift between them sooner or later. But the frantic pace of her new existence pushed these fears in the background, and everything remained the same.

She'd never minded the limelight – in fact, she relished it -, but her new job came with its own responsibilities. She didn't only pilot one of their precious mechs, she was also half of their PR.

She spied Yong walking in their direction. 

Alright, Hana Song with her apprehensions could stay in the hangar. It was D.Va's turn to soar into the skies.

 

«Everyone, fall back to the V formation!»

A quick but precise movement of her wrists brought D.Va behind Ha-Sun's green mech, and Rick's grey machine fell into step an instant later. «Still haven't glamed up that new model, Rick? It looks kinda sad right now.» 

Rick's deep voice resounded in her earpiece. «And have to paint it again when it gets scrapped? This thing'll bear every scar it gets proudly.» Rick, always with the plain-speaking bravado – he'd have teabagged that damn Omnic and called it a bitch if he could have. Maybe that was what coming from a FPS background did to you. Which version of Counter-Strike was it again? The one where you shot terrorists, right?

Questionable attitude aside, he was damn impressive – a friggin' surgeon with his long-range fusion auto-cannons. They all were, really – the best of the best, the creamest of the cropest. 

The group swerved to the left, then dove down until their thrusters left deep trails in the ocean's water – all the while keeping their formation by the millimeter. Flight exercises were pretty dull affairs for the members of the unit who cared more about shooting than maneuvering, but she relished every second she spent behind that green bulletproof glass, her hands on the joysticks, fingers prone to pull the triggers or activate the defense matrix at a moment's notice.

Another swerve, then all seven of them took a sharp turn towards the clouds. All of it was a long, tireless effort to build the right reflexes – working as a team, following protocol, keeping everyone safe. 

A chill ran down every new pilot's spine as they entered the cockpit, as they wrapped their fingers around the joysticks, as they felt the complex machinery follow their every command like an extension of their own body: the temptation to play maverick was as strong as it was deadly.

A flash came from above. A few dozen feet to her left, something exploded into a sphere of sparks, then something else exploded against Joo-won's mech.

D.Va's vision became pure white for an instant as the blast sent the group flying apart. «What the f-... bogey on our twelve!» a feminine voice roared over the commotion – the voice was distorted and parasited. A low-pitched whine grew in intensity somewhere to her right, and she regained her bearings just in time to veer out of the way of another incoming missile.

This wasn't part of the training. She knew that before HQ yelled that they'd picked no radar signatures and ordered them to head back to base over the radio. Three black, menacing silhouettes discarded the cover of the cloudline, leaving three parallel white trails behind them as they curved to flank the group: planes. Their machines were quick and sturdy, but fighter jets still had them beat when it came to speed.

Another shimmery explosion. The controls felt sluggish, unresponsive – something had messed with them. Their mechs were designed to resist everything disruptive that Omnic could throw at them, which was one of the reasons why they put actual people in there – so how?

No time to think. Their attackers had the advantage of surprise, and they'd screwed with their machines. It'd have been a waltz with their mechs at full capacity: without, it was more akin to a group of flying sharks closing in on a shoal of metallic, colorful fish outfitted with cutting-edge weaponry.

«Squad, come in! Please someone say something!» Her voice reached no one, echoing against the metallic enclosure of her cockpit – for a moment, Hana Song jumped into the cockpit, a breath perished in her throat, and blood flushed away from her face. 

Out of her mech, she could have called to her squad, tried to mount a proper defensive tactic – but not at this speed. They were all trapped in their machines, each of them on their own, forced to navigate by sight. They'd done this before, but it'd never been real.

What the hell was she thinking?

D.Va took a deep breath, reaffirmed her grip on the joysticks, a smirk came to her lips, and her eyes focused on what she had to defeat. There, it was over.

Her cockpit resonated with several shocks as a hail of bullets hit her side – she whipped around, firing a volley of fusion cannon shots to retaliate. But the mech was too slow, the shots too innacurate – the plane flew by and amorced a turn to fire again. Only Rick seemed to come even close to landing a shot.

Their communications were scrambled – reflexes kicked in, and they fell back into something close to a formation. Joo-won's mech was nowhere to be seen – in the water, probably. The planes sped above, below, danced circles around all six of them, evading all their attempts at counter-attacking. 

A defense matrix shot down one more missile – her fingers moved faster than they'd ever had. She could feel the beads of sweat rolling down her brow. They were never going to win on their own, but they could stall the encounter until reinforcements came.

The plane charged from their six. D.Va pulled back as strongly as her arms would allow, and the shock of her sudden braking then the downward pull of gravity brought her stomach dangerously close to her lips: she pressed both triggers harder than she'd ever had, and prayed.

The jet's shots missed, but hers didn't. There was an explosion as her fusion cannons ravaged her foe's underside: she'd hit something important. The white trail turned black, and the aircraft slowed down – for one second only, but even with their sluggish machines one second was enough. One second of focused fire, and it exploded. Now we're talking.

Good, perfect, awesome. Her thrusters roared as she fell back into step – the two remaining jets looped for yet another attack. Another volley came – she primed her thumbs over the matrix's triggers, and pressed down.

Nothing happened. She pressed again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

Two missiles hit in quick succession. Then another one. A sound like metal screaming in pain rung in her ears, then the shrill wail of an alarm.

A gel-like, foamy substance filled the machine's cockpit to cushion her as the mecha's flight systems failed. She didn't count the seconds before she hit the ground, but her last thought before she lost consciousness surprised even herself:

_I hope the suscribers didn't see that._


	2. Chapter 2

She woke up to the feeling of being smothered. Nothing more than pitch-black darkness greeted her as she opened her eyes, and Hana hit the side of her head as she scrambled around in the tight space of her cockpit. The cocoon that'd protected her during the fall had regressed to a thick, loamy substance congealed at the bottom of that spherical space. Disgusting. Disgusting, but it'd saved her life.

The mecha'd crashed front-first, judging by the fact that she couldn't reach her joysticks

Out. She needed to get _out_.

A handle. There was a handle one could pull if all systems in their mechs failed, one that'd disassemble the machine so the pilot wouldn't get trapped inside. Entirely mechanical and electronics-free to protect it from EPM. Right, right, that was what she had to do to get out of here.

Right. Calm down, D.Va. There was no point in losing her cool and hyperventilating now.

She knew all of the mech's function by heart – finding the minuscule handle in complete darkness was something else entirely, though. Somewhere above her head when everything worked normally. At least she found her gun easily – the familiar weight of her light blaster in her palm proved oddly reassuring.

Blindly feeling around proved useless. Every passing second became more oppressive, made her more acutely aware of just how cramped the cockpit of her mecha was now that she was trapped in it – she needed to calm down. Her eyes'd get used to the darkness in a couple of minutes – she could use that time to collect her thoughts.

So. A training exercise, attacked by three (or was there more of them?) mysterious fighter jets. It wasn't the giant Omnic: these were piloted by people, professionals even, and they'd been waiting for them. They'd used something to scramble their machines – hadn't managed to shut them down completely, so they'd either misjudged the firepower they needed or their goal had been different.

Joo-won'd gotten shot down first, as soon as the battle'd began. She herself'd been taken out not that long after – not before taking one of their foes with her, at least. That was the D.Va's Touch. Her Defense Matrix'd malfunctioned, most likely because of that disruptive weapon they'd used. And... there she was.

What had happened to the rest of the team? She couldn't know, so of course her imagination was poising itself to go wild over it. She could hope, at the very least. Hope reinforcements'd come in time. The D.Va's Touch, again – anchoring herself in the present, not letting the mights and the mays weigh her down.

Hope they'd come for her, too.

She found the handle, crossed her fingers, then pulled it.

Sunlight flooded the buried cockpit when the mech's backside disassembled itself – she took a deep, deep breath, relishing in the sensation of fresh air filling her lungs. A few contortions, a handful of pushes on her arms – and she was out. 

She let herself fall flat, muttering a drawn-out «Oh, god...» and enjoying the feeling of solid ground beneath her. 

Hana pushed herself back to her fleet and scanned her surroundings with the trained eye of the professional gamer: her mecha's meteoric descent had flattened several trees on its way down before reaching ground level and digging a large hole into the ground, and then it had stopped. 

The thing was in awful condition, although that went without saying. 

Hana ran her hand across one of the sole square feet of her machine's surface that remained pink, amidst the grey of the armor and the brown of the dirt. It was... disquieting, seeing it that way. You got attached to these things – they could always replace them, build another one, paint it the same way, they'd give it a serial number that her fans'd commit to memory. Maybe the military brass'd frown over at her, because these machines were expensive, damnit.

Was that Hana Song thinking, or D.Va? Whatever. Her machine'd done its purpose, it'd shielded her from what'd have been certain death. The gun she had in her palm was a more important tool to her survival than her mech at this very moment.

Had the various sensors and beacons her jumpsuit'd been outfitted with survived the attack? Rescue was already on its way if the answer was yes. If not...

…

She dove back into the carcass. A loud sigh of relief escaped her lips when she found the distress beacon – one more thing to stack the game more in her favor. She hit the red switch on it, watching the light blink on and off for a couple of seconds before clipping it to her hip. If it worked like it was supposed to, help'd come in a few hours at most. 

A rapid body check confirmed that she was intact – her right arm felt somewhat dull and weak, but she could move it around fine, so it was probably nothing.

One question remained: where the hell was she?

The fallen trees along with the deep rift left by her mech made for a handy landmark amidst the woods, so she judged reasonable to answer that question with a quick exploration of her surroundings. 

Birds chirping, wind gently blowing through the trees, waves rolling and crashing nearby. Not a sound of human origin, aside from her own footsteps and the dangling of her gun's rabbit keychain at her side. _Don't tell me I got stranded on a deserted island_ , she thought with a bemused smirk. _Actually, I wouldn't mind that. The suscribers'd love hearing about it_. She'd most likely find fifty movie scripts about the subject in her mailbox the millisecond she told anyone about it. 

A quick beeline through trees and bushes, and soon it was sand that she heard squeaking under her soles. The beach was barely more than a few meters wide, as though the forest had tried to furiously push it into the sea. The thin white line disappeared into blue after a couple hundred feet both on her left and right. _Shoulda brought the fizzy drinks and the swimsuit._

A nice, prudent girl who followed protocol to the letter'd have nicely and prudently waited for rescue next to her mecha, like protocol demanded. 

She was D.Va. Time to see for herself what that island had in store for her, judge if bringing the fizzy drinks and the swimsuit was actually a good idea. South Korea officially counted 3358 islands within its borders, and it was time to get familiar with one more of them.

Three blaster shots against a trunk to mark it, and she was off!

She walked a handful of minutes along the beach before her attempt at going around the island was suddenly stopped by a tree-covered rock spur jutting over land and sea. She took off her gloves and plunged her hands into the sea, enjoying the lukewarm water bathing her fingers – at the very least her manicure hadn't suffered from the crash. Small victories... A few miles of Pacific Ocean separated her from another small patch of solid ground – not worth it.

Right, so that way was closed off. D.Va traced her steps back to the marked tree and continued in the other direction. The entire island seemed to be surrounded by that thin strip of sand: it slowly rose in altitude the closer to the center one got, but the top still probably didn't two hundred feet.

The coast also became noticeably more rocky and uneven before long, but not so much that she couldn't get through with proper footing and rapid steps: the same rock formation once again stopped her course, confirming that she'd indeed walked all the way around the island in what she judged to be a little over thirty minutes. The island was indeed pretty tiny. What was that about exploring her surroundings again? 

The tide was falling as she made her way back to the marked tree once more. Hunger was starting to tickle her stomach, and the sun was unmistakeably amorcing its descent towards the horizon. She remained optimistic. Rescue'd be here before nightfall, all of this'd be a bad memory... and they'd start working on payback. 

I'm gonna show the whole world when we drop in and kick their asses. Won't even know what hit 'em. It was all a game to D.Va: getting shot down and landing on that island wasn't any different than waiting for a character to respawn and jump back into the fray – it was a simple misstep, something to laugh about five seconds later. That was what her fans wanted, what the world wanted: an icon, an example, a role model. D.Va spun her weapon around her finger, looking at her keychain with bemusement.

That was D.Va.

Hana Song was pallid with rage. Someone'd dared to ambush them, to fire at them, to try and take them all down – her, her friends, her family, on a routine training mission. Hana saw Joo-Won's mech plunging down every time she closed her eyes, her brain desperately begging for something to explain why and how. They knew the mechs'd be there, obviously, the attack'd been planned out. Hana looked at the distress beacon, and thought that just because the light blinked right didn't mean the rest worked well. Hana thought of her machine's carcass, there in the forest, lying broken and useless. Hana stopped spinning her gun, and her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip around the handle.

She looked up, and her eyes narrowed.

_What's that in the water?_

Something'd been uncovered by the retreating tide – something metallic, judging by the way the light reflected off it, barely tall enough to protrude out of the water. She took two prudent steps forward, stopping when she recognized it as part of a machine. Was that part of her mech...? 

Another couple of steps – she could distinguish other elements under the water now, barely hidden from view. Multiple pieces of some machinery, untarnished by their time underwater. There were many more than she'd previously seen, dozens of them, strewn about mere inches from the water's surface and half-buried in sand.

Hana looked down. A black, vertical slit looked back at her.

She wasn't sure if the decision was conscious, but she leaped out of the water quicker than she'd ever thought possible. 

E54 Bastion units – responsible for more human death than any other model during the Omnic Crisis. Dozens of them were there, just barely out of sight, a bona fide scrapyard that got revealed at low tide. She remembered what the military man'd told them, during one of their safety classes back at school: nearly one hundred percent of Bastion units had been destroyed or deactivated, but if they ever came across one, even if it looked utterly wrecked, putting some distance between it and them was the responsible thing to do. You never knew with these things.

A shiver ran down her spine. All of these... things were outfitted with gatling guns, the kind that'd cut her in half in a quarter of a second – she could see the barrels jutting out of the sea now. Some of them were oriented in her general direction, as if to dare her to flee.

And that's what she did.

***

Help hadn't come.

The night was slowly falling, and with it the temperature. That in itself wasn't a problem: the jumpsuit was designed to shield her from both heat and cold. The growing hunger in her stomach she could ignore, too, as it soon faded into a vague, uncomfortable sensation in the background of her senses. Her headset came equipped with a frontal light: that at least hadn't been fried in the attack.

No, the real problem was that she couldn't put more than a few hundred feet between her and several dozen death machines, even wrecked ones. She periodically sent nervous glances past the treeline, spying any kind of mechanical movement on the coast. Her D.Va brain told her not to be afraid of some pieces of twisted metal, but Hana argued back that her situation was too dire to afford this kind of thinking. Evolution'd hammered this reflex into their brain for a reason - the prehistoric man didn't stop to ponder what that thing moving in the tall grass happened to be: he ran as quickly as he could.

She'd have given up a lot of things to get her console at this precise moment – just anything to pass the time, to distract her from her situation, something to unplug her brain and let time fly by until rescue came. They'd be looking for her, of course, but how long it'd take them to find her depended on quite a lot of things.

Would writing a gigantic, old-fashioned «HELP» in the sand and wait for a plane to fly by actually be the solution? She chuckled to herself. At least she could find some humor in her situation.

Nonchalantly, she sent the scrap heap another look.

_Blue light. Why is there a blue light?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bastion in this chapter isn't necessarilly the Bastion from the game - whichever one you want, really.
> 
> Warning for some gore and graphic violence.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

The light shone through the trees, bouncing up and down with every step the machine took, outlining every trunk with a blue halo. Despite its bulk, the Omnic's gait was light, fluid and quick. It played short melodies of beeps and boops from time to time, as if talking to itself – or was that something its system just did after booting up again?

Most importantly, it wasn't coming in her direction. It walked up and down the beach, barely paying notice to the graveyard of similar models lying just a few meters away: they'd taught them things about these machines, back at school. The Omniums'd built them in droves for cost-effectiveness and efficiency, and the design'd mostly remained unchanged during the decades of the Omnic Crisis aside from slight corrections. They were cannon fodder, able to see, hear, fire their gigantic guns, and repair themselves, but not much more.

Cannon fodder or not, the day she'd find herself within its line of fire'd be a very bad one.

D.Va's brain gears spun at lightspeed. She was trapped on a minuscule island with a roaming Bastion; the best possible thing to happen would be for her not to be trapped on a minuscule island with a roaming Bastion, but she'd have to meet reality halfway and come up with another solution. 

Destroy it? Where did you shoot these things, anyway?

Hunker down in her hole and hope it wouldn't notice her? If it did, she'd be caught between hammer and anvil.

Climb up a tree and remain there until rescue came? No, that was stupid.

Walk up to it and autograph its armor « _To my favorite death machine, from D.Va! XOXO_ »? That worked on the peaceful kind of Omnics – they wore these like people wore tattoos -, but she doubted it would with this. Besides, she didn't have a pen.

...Her mech's self-destruct function. Why they'd seen fit to include that but still complained about every scratch they did to the poor machines, she didn't know. But... the mechanism could only be triggered by using the actual command within the mech, to avoid accidental and catastrophic explosions. Maybe the explosive itself still worked, but the mechanism probably didn't, plus she couldn't program the delay before the blast if all electronics were fried... no, that was way too risky. Damnit, another brilliant solution vanishing into thin air.

She could try and get as far away as she could. The thing was certainly far from being stealthy, while that bodysuit was silent as a whisper. That'd force her into a deadly game of cat-and-mouse until rescue came or that thing deactivated itself, but she was frickin' D.Va, she won games just by entering them. A confident smirk stretched her lips, and her decision was taken. 

With these thoughts safely tucked in a corner of her mind, it was time to begin and put that bodysuit to the catsuit test. 

She stepped over the edge of the ditch, keeping her eyes riveted on that blue light. Enough trees separated her and the machine to hide her form or at least blur it: her movements were kept methodical but swift, and she made sure to put a larger trunk between cat and mouse before she picked up the pace.

The machine made another beep. She looked back, and almost froze in fear.

It was coming in her direction, bumping against trees along the way. How the hell had it noticed – her footprints. It'd seen her footprints on the beach and followed them. The genius D.Va'd laid a flawless plan to evade the murder machine, and she hadn't thought of the footprints she'd left beforehand on the beach.

She leaned into a sprint. The thing knew were to look now, so there was no point in trying to be stealthy on the ground. Another beep, this time deeper – could a machine sound angry? Because that one did. The Omnic's thundering footsteps grew quicker: she pushed her muscles to go faster, to work better despite the hunger working at her stamina, but the thumps didn't become more distant. Somewhere in her mind was the knowledge that this direction'd lead her directly to the sheer cliff cleaving the island in two – but she thought of nothing but running, putting some distance between cat and mouse.

The _thumps_ stopped. Then there was a _click_.

 _Dive!_ Her limbs obeyed the command before her brain processed it. Several bullets flew where she was standing half a second ago: splinters ran as the nullets tore into the trees around her, but she didn't stop. She kicked herself back to her feet, leaping to the right and accelerating back to her sprinting pace.

_Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump-_

She couldn't tell which resonated louder – the machine's steps, or the echo of her heart's beating into her ears. Her breathless run brought her to the beach, and she stopped. It took her an instant to think – a sitting duck out here – before she jumped back into the woods, pursued by the Bastion. She cursed herself for this moment of hesitation – _it's closer now_ -, but her lungs burnt too much for her to voice her frustration. Machine gun bursts came periodically – death was centimeters away always, and she began to wonder if the thing wasn't toying with her. Could machines display sadism? Because that one sure looked like it did.

 _Thump, click, dodge. Thump, click, dodge_. The longer this went on, the more mistakes she'd do, and eventually one'd be fatal. D.Va could do magic, but even she couldn't undo that simple truth.

Something bumped against her foot – a scream escaped her lips as her ankle exploded into piercing pain. Vertical became horizontal, then the ground replaced the horizon. _Ohnononono_ \- Her temple bumped against something as she fell, followed by the feeling of something wet blooming on her forehead. Once again, the thumps stopped. Then another _click_.

Her palm found the blaster's grip. She whipped around, pressed the trigger before even bothering to aim, and hoped for a miracle. Two blue projectiles fractured the machine's eye, its burst going wide and showering the area with more splinters – then there was no light anymore, and darkness fell.

She braced herself for the feeling of bullets ripping her flesh apart, but nothing came.

A whirring sound came from the mechanical silhouette standing out against the dark blue of the night sky. The parts moved around, switched positions, taking apart a complicated puzzle to build another – _it's transforming, shoot again and save your life_. D.Va levelled her gun at the center of the mass and fired on full-auto.

The bullets illuminated the machine – the barrel of a minigun was pointing her way, the machine's form configurated into a turret with its head sitting on top. Her shots against the armor did nothing but graze it, leaving blue, glowing impact against the metal.

Another deep, garbled melody came from within the Omnic, then its gun revved up. _Now_.

Every direction meant death, so she scrambled forward in desperation, ignoring the pain as she pushed on her twisted ankle. A hail of bullets turned the ground she was lying on an instant ago into a crater – the machine tried to readjust its aim, but the minigun's barrel was too long. She saw stars when the side of the weapon smacked into her arm in a hurried attempt at knocking her off: her ears rung as the thundering roar of the Bastion's minigun erased all other sensations with its sheer power.

But she held on. Her fingers got a grip on the Bastion's armor – _gotcha, you goddamn machine_ – and she climbed up on the turret's body, out of sight and out of range. No time to celebrate that little victory, no time to quip – on the turret's backside was a blue, lightly glowing cube. _Weak point_. They'd never gone into the design specifics of the E54 units, but that didn't matter - she'd played enough games to know this was how a weak point looked like.

Point blank. The machine moved beneath her with a whirr, but her focus was all on getting her blaster right up to that blue cube. Her finger tightened around the trigger, then-

Her left arm moved in a strange way, a way she hadn't wanted it to: the world turned white and bright for an instant. Amidst the whirring, a crunch: then she felt it.

A thousand nerve endings screamed the same thing – _pain, pain, pain, pain_ – and she wailed along with them. The blue cube exploded under several shots of her gun – a fortunate event, because her first reflex was to let go of her weapon and reach for her arm. She pulled, pulled, pulled with all her strenght as every system of the machine died down: some internal movement of the machine suddenly released her limb, and she fell to the ground after one last pull.

Pain. She liked playing outside as a kid, so of course she'd known pain. But never like this.

Pain. So intense and overwhelming that every other sensation subsided in the background. It irradiated from her arm into her entire left side, extreme heat along with a sensation of unpleasant wetness.

Pain. She didn't get to try and resist before tears flooded her eyes and she started sobbing – D.Va thought she didn't cry, but D.Va hadn't had her arm crushed by a machine's moving parts yet. Hana regained enough control of her body to crawl back against a nearby trunk. She forced herself to breathe, overpowering the urge to vomit – in, out, in, out, in, out. Calming down was out of her reach for the moment.

She knew it was horrible, and she knew she needed to look – but she couldn't find the strenght to, not now. Her limb had been twisted far beyond what it could endure, in several places: the bones'd pierced through the skin, judging by the wetness of blood under her bodysuit. Modern medicine could repair her arm, fix it and make it work better than it'd ever had: modern medicine was a faraway fantasy on this island.

Hana didn't move, crying and sobbing into her closed fist. Her arm remained limp and immobile, hanging uselessly off her left shoulder like sack of bones and flesh and agony. Pain wasn't the only thing to fuel the stream of tears: she cursed the rescue that didn't come, the mech that failed at the worst moment, D.Va for going on an Omnic rodeo, Hana for letting her arm get caught in the moving parts of the machine. Her teammates too, for not being here, Jong, for enabling this catastrophe, whoever had invented that mech for even existing.

From the periphery of her senses came the sound of an aircraft flying overhead. The pain subsided just enough to allow her to pay attention to it: it was close, very close. Masculine voices conversed in English, yelling about finding something.

Two men came from behind and stopped in front of her. «Boss! The girl's here.»

 _English_. If they were Korean soldiers here to rescue her, why were they speaking English?

They weren't Korean. These men were clad all in black, and armed – she couldn't pick up much more before a flashlight was shined into her eyes.

«Not in a good state, though. That thing messed her up.»

«Think it's worth it to bring her back to the base?»

**«I'll be the judge of that.»**

That last voice – deep, echoing, ethereal - cut through the night, rumbled, spoke directly to her stomach and overwhelmed everything else. The tall figure looming over her swatted away both hand and blaster with ease, letting out a derisive chortle – something else hit the side of her head, and the last image her mind registered as she fell into unconsciousness again was a skull, staring back at her with two empty eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

_They'd treated her well, all things considered._

 

Her first memory following the skull-faced man's empty eyes staring at her was blurry: something bright shining in her eyes, silhouettes standing over her, cold underneath her, the vague feeling of her unclothed body being observed by several pair of unknown eyes. Hana's lips moved, but no sound came.

 

There was pain, but it was distant and dull, she doubted it belonged to her body. One of the figures spoke, pointed a finger somewhere out of her vision.

 

A strange, cottony taste blossomed between her jaws. The feeling of distance grew stronger and stronger, and she plunged back into darkness.

 

***

 

How much time had passed? Hours? Days? Weeks? Nothing in her holding cell indicated the passage of time. Nothing outfitted it but a stained mattress, a light on the celing and a persistent coppery smell that she'd grown to hate. They'd put her arm into a tight cast, and the rest of her into a button-up shirt and pants. There was something terrifying about the sheer _quietness_ of the cramped room, so she paced back and forth, distracting herself with the sound of her barefooted steps on the cold ground. Her ankle was still painful, but D.Va channeled the pain into more thinking power.

 

These men'd shot down her mech, there was no doubt about it. They'd been searching for her, too, and not to finish her off – why would they have taken her in and patched her up otherwise? They'd thought she'd be more useful as a hostage than dead, that was the obvious solution.

 

She felt sluggish. Most likely they'd pumped her full of anesthetics when they'd fixed her arm so she wouldn't wake up – that'd explain the cottony taste.

 

The door swung open. Four armed men pushed her out of the cell and led her to another room before she could even think of reacting: she barely had the time to notice another person in the room before the door was slammed shut behind her.

 

The woman's skin was blue, her eyes golden – she observed her with the detached coldness of someone who'd killed enough people to stop counting them and stop feeling guilt about it. Their eyes met: a chill ran down Hana's spine while the start of a smirk stretched the woman's lips.

 

«Greetings, _ma petite._ » She nonchalantly reached for Hana's free wrist – the strenght of the woman's grip belied the delicateness of her physionomy, but what made the girl truly jump was how _cold_ it was. She twisted her arm to escape the glacial hands, something the woman paid no mind to as she observed her hand with strange fascination.

 

« _Quel dommage_ that this machine had to break the other one... Truly, these are fingers one'd kill for.» She stupidly ordered her other, broken arm to move, which did nothing but send a paralyzing wave of pain through her entire left side. She could feel the tears forming, again – _damnit, D.Va, she had no excuse to start crying, not at this moment..._

 

The woman unclenched Hana's closed fist with ease, playing around with the five fingers, stretching them in all directions like she would a doll's. «Would you look at this! A manicure before a mission? Very _coquet._ It is true that your hands are kept safe inside that machine...»

 

«What the hell are you-» She almost lost her balance when the woman let go of her wrist.

 

« _Moi?_ I simply wanted to have a look at you before they start working on you, darling. We do not get international celebrities often, down here.»

 

So they knew who she was – of course, she had her face plastered all over movie posters and advertisements and cereal boxes. Why wouldn't they know who she was? «Working on me?» The sultry way that woman said the word _working_ felt beyond wrong.

 

The woman chuckled. «Something simple, really. Getting inside this pretty little head and replacing the useless cogs with something useful for us, grease the machinery in the right places... _Rapide et sans douleur_.»

 

«Brainwashing? That's cute. You assholes can cut my brain open, you'll never get inside my head.»

 

Widowmaker burst into crystalline laughter. « _Oh, ma pauvre_... You'd be surprised.»

 

***

 

It started with simple questions: name, date and place of birth, occupation, things they could already learn by punching her alias into any search engine. Food was both rare and unpleasant, as was sleep, so they waited until hunger and fatigue started working at her before going into more private, sensible information. Truthful answers meant a quick questioning followed by a meal, keeping her mouth shut stretched these sessions forever. The ploy was obvious – conditioning her into telling them the truth, and punishing her when she didn't.

 

She'd lost count of how many times they'd woken her up, led her to the interrogation room, then led her back to her cell. Again, and again, and again.

 

D.Va was having none of this. She kept the winning attitude, the peppy tone, the defiant talk – they wanted to bend her into compliance, but they wouldn't. Fatigue was nothing, hunger was nothing: the blue-skinned woman sometimes observed these interrogations, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed. She seemed amused by her resilience more than anything.

 

The interrogators were amused as well, but she learned that too late.

 

«The hangar that houses the mechs. Which one is it?» 

 

She scoffed. «Not sure. I think it's got mechs in it.»  _Obviously._

 

The bespectacled woman remained stone-faced. It'd been like this for hours.

 

«Oh, wait! It's on the base, that should narrow your searches.»

 

With a sigh, the interrogator gestured to one of the guards.

 

Her head was slammed on the table cheek-first. She saw stars – from the corner of her vision, Hana spotted something metallic and small, and before she could try and struggle a syringe was jabbed and emptied into her neck. Two powerful hands held her down as she squirmed and yelped in pain – it felt like lava in her bloodstream, spreading from her collarbone into her entire body. The room became darker, her body weaker: the hands pulled her back against the seat of the chair and left her there.

 

For a quarter of an instant, something changed in Widowmaker's facade.

 

«Very well. We wanted to keep this trump card as long as we could, but you're quite the willful one, aren't you? I am going to ask you the same question, and you will answer it truthfully and quickly. From then on, you will answer _every_ question the same way, because you physically won't be able to lie. It'll be like this. Is that clear? Yes or no.» The woman's tone changed slightly

 

Hana's eyes refused to move away from the ceiling – her body was made of mud, barely holding itself together, only stopped from leaking down onto the floor by the chair. Consciously speaking was impossible, and the words that came through her lips hand't been filtered through her brain. «Y...Yes.»

 

«Good. Which hangar houses the mechs?» 

 

***

 

She became used to the truth serum. Every time they led her into that room, they injected her: every time, her body melted down to the floor and she couldn't control her words anymore. Every time, she tried to summon D.Va, but the chemicals silenced her better than any gag.

 

Worst of all, her memories of the interrogations became indistinct – her body purged the product away as she laid down, desperately craving a hour or two of sleep, only to freeze up in terror as she struggled to remember the questions, scratched her brain bloody to look back at what she'd said, what informations she'd let slip during the medicine-induced haze.

 

Widowmaker stepped into the cell. It took Hana several seconds to turn around on her bedding and notice the blue-skinned woman: when she did, she opted to groan and turn back, facing away from her.

 

«This thing'll destroy you if they keep jabbing it into you.» Her tone was mechanical and detached, quite unlike how it'd sounded the first and only time she'd heard her speak.

 

«Go away.» Hana could barely muster enough strenght to speak, but Widowmaker's enhanced senses picked up the words just fine.

 

«We need you intact. It'll only get worse if you try to resist that much.»

 

«Go... away.» Why wasn't her arm healing right? Because they'd rigged it that way, what a stupid question. Another thing to chip away at her, and it was working.

 

Widowmaker's voice softened lightly. « _Petite..._ They'll get the answers out of you sooner or later. The best thing you can do for yourself is giving it to them on your own. We don't need you in any worse shape, that'll play _against_ us.»

 

Hana didn't answer. Her breathing'd become calmer, more regular – she was sleeping, Widowmaker realized, probably for the first time in more than thirty hours. She stepped closer. The pink whiskers stood out even clearer against the pasty skin: her brown, lush hair looked fairly pitiful after days of mistreatment, while dark rings' etched themselves around the girl's eyes. She could spy several bruises where the guards'd held her, some new, some nearly faded.

 

What was that... _twinge?_ Empathy?

 

Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. This kind of obstacle was foreign to her. It was useless – and always had been. As far as she could remember... yes, as far as she could remember, her heart'd been steeled against this.

 

This girl was a tool. It still needed to be sharpened, and given purpose, but for all intents, it was a piece of flesh and bone they needed to mold into something useful for them. Perhaps they'd even discard it if she proved too much to handle – they'd done it before. Why feel anything towards it but indifference? It didn't make any sense.

 

And yet... Every time the syringe plunged into that foreign skin, the same sensation came back. Something as if it was stabbed into _her_ , too. She'd felt it the first time they'd injected the girl: coming back the day afterwards'd simply been an excuse to verify that. And yet... she'd experienced it again. Pain, followed by more pain.

 

...It didn't make any sense. She had no time for nonsensical things. Why had she even come here? The girl didn't need to hear any of this. The only thing she needed to do was uncoiling her brain down to the last memory so they could start proper work on it. Damn that preliminatory part of the process – it always took too long.

 

Widowmaker looked back one last time as she made her way out of the cell. _I'll put a word in with the interrogator. These imbeciles'll kill her if they continue this way._

 

The door slammed loudly, but not enough to wake her up.

 

_All things considered, yes... they'd treated her well._

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

She understood too late what they were trying to do. Her skills were exceptional, so they wanted them for themselves. 

 

She learnt her captors'd retrieved what was left of her mech as well – the machine, too, was exceptional. Cutting-edge technology crafted for defeating what nothing else could, all there for the reverse-engineering. The only reasons they'd managed to shoot it down was surprise, and even then it'd come at a steep cost. Why wouldn't a terrorist group want to get their hands on it?

 

The injections stopped, and the interrogations soon followed. She'd hoped to feel relief, just for the sake of feeling something positive in this constant torture – but even that was refused to her. There was... nothing. Nothing but a heavy, empty heart, because she knew, deep down, that this wouldn't be the end. It'd get worse.

 

***

 

_Their method was precise, and they didn't waste any time._

 

_Hana was too problematic, too complicated. Too many doubts, too many memories, too many relationships, like any other teenage girl – too human. Difficult and awkward to suppress effectively on its own, which meant something could trigger its reawakening at an undesirable moment. Hana hesitated in front of danger, she found the millions of eyes watching her during every stream intimidating, so she handed D.Va the keys._

 

_D.Va was built out of another clay, one far easier to mold. She was a construction, a mask Hana projected, something necessary to handle the pressure and responsibilities her fame and profession brought with them. She was strong, confident, always had a quip in store, she relished the fame and the cameras. But she had no memories, and the mask was superficial – she let Hana take control during her private moments, when substance mattered more than form._

 

_Two complementary parts of a whole, inhabiting in harmony._

 

_D.Va needed to kill Hana, to bury her deeper than anyone'd ever reach – then D.Va's purpose and drive needed to be remolded into something that'd serve them and obey their every order. Nothing could destroy a mind better than itself. D.Va'd grow to despise her, and eventually even the memory that a girl called Hana Song had ever existed would forever vanish from her brain._

 

_Pain was a tool to achieve this, anguish was another one. She bore no secret to them anymore – in many, many ways, they knew her better than she'd ever known herself. They could start with confusing her – making her doubt her own past, her own thoughts, everything that defined her as a person. Nothing she'd say would be true anymore: they'd correct her every time._

 

_The fatigue and starvation were severe, but they were nothing compared to what awaited her._

 

_Her will'd break, and then they'd be able to mold her._

 

_She'd made their jobs easier, creating this mask for herself. The only thing they needed to do now was replace her real visage wih it._

 

_They used pain, they used anguish. Soon, she didn't answer to the name of Hana anymore._

 

***

 

«...They want me to babysit the brat. _Sérieusement._ » 

 

 **«If that's the stupid way you want to call it... She can't be sent out on her own. Yet. They need combat data, see how she reacts to killing.»** Even in professional conversation, Reaper's croaking bass carried an undertone of menace and contemptuous disdain – it terrified the soldiers, Widowmaker found it profoundly annoying.

 

She scoffed. «I believe I've got more success on my own. A certain museum comes to mind. A certain Omnic leader, as well.» She felt Reaper's icy glare on her from behind his mask. How utterly adorable. There wasn't a second they spent in each other's presence without a hand ready to reach for their weapons.

 

 **«You have no choice in the matter. This shouldn't be anything difficult to you... After all, it seems as though you've already started with the** _ **babysitting.**_ **How motherly of you to care about a prisoner's treatment.** _ **»**_ _Don't think I ignore anything that happens in this facility_ was the unspoken sentence here. The cloaked man dissolved into a cloud of dark smoke before she could fire back then moved _through_ her and out of the room.

 

What idiocy. The brass, as always... that was a waste of ressources, really. She could easily handle this assignment alone, get away quickly and cleanly, all in a day's work – but they wanted to take their new toy out for a spin rather than polish it up further.

 

More risks, less discretion – none of that mattered to them. They were comfortably seated in the safety of their labs, playing with their syringes and writing down millions of useless things – never saw a weapon firing or a man dying without at least three inches of bulletproof glass in front of them. Cowards. Bullies. Never faced a starved nineteen-years-old with a broken arm without four men to hold her down-

 

-That _twinge._ _Again_.

 

She scratched at her neck, and hurried the pace. Might as well check on the girl, if she was forced to work with her on this assignment...

 

***

 

D.Va tightened her grip around the mech's two joysticks, fingers primed over the multiple triggers on each side. The machine was black and sleek, two powerful legs supporting a slim body all in agressive curves: multiple hidden apertures hid just as many weapons, while a rotating fusion cannon on each arm completed the arsenal. Yellow holograms inside the dark cockpit communicated a myriad of environmental informations at every instant.

 

She knew how to pilot that machine – it came naturally, like breathing or walking. She did not know why – but _why_ was irrelevant, the same way the reason _why_ humans had eyes to see and ears to hear was irrelevant. It was a truth she knew instinctively – the mech was an extension of her body, something she didn't even have to even think about to use.

 

Everything was irrelevant – everything, but the assignment. Her first one, given to her two hours before. As far as she was concerned, her birth had taken place when she'd left the cold, dreadful outside to slip into the warm, reassuring womb of her cockpit. What had she been before? What an idiotic question.

 

No one was anything before they came into existence. There had been nothing before D.Va, and there'd be nothing after her.

 

She could feel her mech's volition, its impatience to demonstrate its glory to the world in a hail of steel. The machine hummed and groaned like an animal of carbon fiber and metal, and she found herself synchronizing her breathing to the rythm of its inner workings.

 

The energy that powered it passed through her own body, connecting electricity and blood into an unified circulatory system. «Not too long, now.» she whispered softly to the targetting system, rubbing her thumb against the side of the joystick.

 

Left, right, left, right, left, right. The vertical cliff barely presented an obstacle: the mech's feet adhered to the snow-beaten rock with the ease of a gecko. The cold and poor visibility of the snow-covered bolivian Andes couldn't even be called annoyances – her sensors informed her of far more things than her eyes could ever provide.

 

_There._ She reached the point where the mountain's face gave way to the fortress's outer wall – according to her altimeter, sea level laid four thousand meters below her. 

 

Widowmaker's voice spoke in her inner ear from somewhere above her, on the peak's crest. « _Impressionant,_ this place... The outside security is lacking, however. I count eight security drones patrolling the outer wall. I suppose they wouldn't get many idiots to sign up for a vacation up here.» A single road led in and out of the fortress, snaking between peaks and ravines when it didn't go through them outright.

 

No answer. Well, this'd prove to be one doozy of a team-up, wouldn't it?

 

«I'll shoot down the drones. _Une balle chacun_. When you hear the eighth one explode – blast your way in. Don't care how you do it – no need to be subtle.» She was curious, truth be told. As much as she resented this little partnership, it was a wonderful little toy the engineers'd put together, and perhaps seeing it in action would make the trip worthwile. _Perhaps._ «Do you understand?» 

 

A grin came to D.Va's lips. _Finally_. «I do.»

 

Five seconds passed. Then a gunshot, followed by an blast she barely heard above the cold wind. _Blam. Boom._ The same thing one second later. Again. Again. She counted eight gunshots, and then it began.

 

The thruster's roar resonated through the entire mech's body as it soared over the facility's outer wall: she spied several anti-air batteries within the fortress's courtyard, then her eyes fell on a smaller, grey block, built against the mountain's rock. The machine plunged down, reached the building in half a second as she fired one of her two rockets at the wall. An explosion, then a loud crash that shook the machine – and she was in.

 

A grey corridor illuminated by blue ceiling lights – the mech was wide enough to scrape the walls with every movement. Most importantly, three men were starting in her direction from the end of the corridor. Three men in a blue uniform, with machine guns. Men and machine looked at each other for half a second, then all four people present reached for the trigger.

 

They opened fire as the defense matrix went up. Bullets met their match in a vertical meteor shower that left a smell of burnt metal in the hair. They couldn't hurt her – not with these pea-shooters of theirs. She could simply pull the trigger, sweep the fusion cannons across the corridor – quick, effective.

 

But it was her first run. Her mech wanted something more creative.

She pulled on the joysticks – the machine boosted forward at high speed, sparks flying from both walls. One of the men yelled something, there was a _crunch._ Something red splashed the black of the armor.

 

D.Va smirked to herself. Now they could get started.

 

***

 

The facility was bustling with people, which meant more occasions to satisfy the machine's urge. A swing of the massive arm sent a man flying through a room; a burst of the fusion cannons cut down another one running away; the large foot crushed another one.

 

She laughed all the way through. Not a single bullet reached her, not a single one _could_. It lacked challenge, but it didn't matter – this'd be a good warmup. They panicked, they screamed, some of them prayed, some of them attempted to call for reinforcements – a quip was always on her tongue, a smirk always lingered on her lips. Widowmaker chimed in on the radio at one moment, said something about a god program – she didn't hear.

 

They sent in drones – she soon loved them. They were faster, more resiliant, more accurate – she had to _try_ to defeat them _._ But even they soon felled – she used all the weapons she had in store, and soon all she was left with was her fusion cannons. Wouldn't have it any other way – it was pure, just the bare essentials. She couldn't cheat anymore.

 

Another defense matrix blocked a burst of minigun fire. She boosted and strafed around the drone, moving faster than it coud follow her – each consecutive circle brought her a little closer to the machine and ravaged the facility a little more as hundreds of bullets ate through the walls. «C'mon, c'mon! Can anyone figure out what I'm doing here? Doesn't take a genius!» D.Va asked mokingly as she amorced one last circle.

 

She reached point blank, and opened fire.

 

Silence fell. The facility'd been echoing with gunshots, howls of pain and panic, the thundering footfalls of her machine, the orchestra of death of her own arsenal unleashed – but not anymore. Had she gone through them all? No, that couldn't be. There had to be someone left – she was in too good of a streak.

 

She pulled the joysticks. The mech refused to move. Again – no movement. Again. Again. Again. «What's wrong with you? Move! Obey me, _move!_ » She jerked the commands in all directions, panicking. Why wouldn't it move? Why wouldn't it _move -_

 

«You need a time-out, _ma_ _petite_.» Widowmaker walked into view and gave the cockpit a couple of mocking knocks. Her weapon'd been slung over her shoulder. She held a strange, glowing blue construct in her left hand and a smaller device in the other. « _Félicitations_ for the performance, but we need to leave. I've retrieved Astarte. What we're here for, remember?»

 

«Stop that.» D.Va's voiced dropped into a low growl, and she sent her partner the harshest glare her eyes could manage. « _Stop that.»_

 

The small device rose up to D.Va's eyes. «T-t-t-t-t. There's no one left but the two of us here. Playtime is over. We need to head home now.»

 

« _Let me go!»_ She punched the bulletproof glass strongly enough to hurt her hand. She was paralyzed, she was vulnerable – why was she doing that to her? Why was she tying her down, _sequestrating her-_

 

«Not before you wind down, _princesse_. We don't have the time for that, though, so allow me to help.» She clicked a button on the device. The mech started moving on its own: a quick shot of the grappling hook, and she was sitting comfortably on top of it.

 

Thank God for that little precaution. The machine'd return nicely and quickly to their getaway, and they'd report their success. The minus thirty air barely affected her as they flew outside and down the face of the mountain – another bonus of her mutilated physiology. From the inside of the mech came muffled, high-pitched noises. She focused her heightened senses on them for one second - and rolled her eyes.

 

Really? The brat was going to cry and scream, now? _Oh, par pitié..._

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The scowl D.Va sent her when she stepped out of the mech could have melted through solid rock – Widowmaker met it with a smile. _Can't really pull off the death glare with those puffy eyes, princesse._

 

The young woman's hair'd been trimmed into a pixie cut, purely for the sake of it being more practical in combat and easier to maintain – the pink whiskers had remained there, however. They were a central element of the mask, something that encapsulated what her captors wanted her to be – so they'd kept them.

 

The mission'd been a success. They'd gotten their hands on the god program Astarte – Widowmaker had no idea what exactly they wanted to do with it, but she could imagine. An AI of this caliber going haywire in an Omnic population center could wreck considerable havoc and become essentially unstoppable... If they didn't use to fry a small country's entire informatic infrastructure. These things hadn't been quarantined for nothing – the possibilities were endless.

 

No survivors, at least not amongst the security detail. The probers took the news with pleased surprise, if not outright glee – their toy worked wonderfully perfectly even. Cleaning up several dozens of armed targets and combat drones went far beyond their expectations, with barely a scratch to show for it – that went far beyond their expectations. Quaked blood coated the machine's front with a dull sheen, barely visible against the black of its armor.

 

It was nothing compared to what she'd left in the Andes, though. Widowmaker'd stopped counting the men she'd killed a long time ago – but this? This had been a proper carnage. She'd seen that black-robed idiot do his work before – subtlety wasn't his strong point. He painted everything red, left nothing but shredded carcasses in his wake. And still, he'd preffered to gloat rather than shoot that damn ape, back at the museum. _Imbecile._

 

_One shot, one kill_. That was her policy – death's scythe struck. before they even knew it was coming for them. Effective, safe, immediate, objectively the best way to end a life. Reaper's methods... so unsubtle, so unsafe, so _ugly_. That girl was the same – no subtlety, no prudence, she slaughtered everything in her way and laughed about it.

 

A feeling of contempt blossomed somewhere within her stomach. Idiots, brutes, cowards, surrounding her from all sides. They'd have killed that girl if she hadn't intervened, and D.Va, in her killing fury, would most likely have destroyed Astarte if she hadn't dashed in and retrieved the AI herself. It was worthless, trying to even advise that girl. Why had she even seen fit to try?

 

Her physiology stopped her from showing it physically, but the will to storm out of the hangar was strong. A researcher walked up to her, an air of smug satisfaction painted on his features. It warped into something quite a lot more accusatory when he opened his mouth. «We are aware that you used our little failsafe at the end of the mission... May I know _why_?»

 

One eyebrow quirked up. «The target'd been retrieved. The _brat_ (she caught the slightest hint of annoyance pulling up the corner of his mouth) wasn't going to stop on her own, obviously, so I got her back to our getaway before reinforcements arrived.» _What a stupid question._ Isolated as the place was, it'd seem unlikely that they hadn't planned for this kind of attacks.

 

The curve of his smile oozed with contempt. «I am aware of all this, yes, so allow me to ask you again: _why did you use the failsafe?_ » 

 

«What are you getting at?» 

 

«You saw the machine's effectiveness for yourself. Outnumbered at a hundred to one, she killed them all without even a nick to her armor. Reinforcements would have been a fine occasion to test it out further.» 

 

Widowmaker's body rigidified itself. «You give too much credit to that brat.»

 

«She deserves all of it, operative. I'll be looking forward to the day such a failsafe isn't necessary anymore.» And his tone to add: _and the day you are not needed._

 

She had enough. Widowmaker stormed past the man and out of the hangar, sending the _brat_ a last glare.

 

She confused her, that girl. Widowmaker considered most of her fellow Talon operatives with either indifference or contempt – they worked for the same organisation, which made their continued existence somewhat advantageous in the larger scheme of things, but she couldn't have cared less for them as individuals. Most if not all shown themselves lacking in competence, and their eventual replacements likewise. _Of course_ they were barely getting closer to their goals, why did that surprise anyone?

 

D.Va was the exception. Oh, there _was_ contempt brewing in her brain when she looked at her: she'd get herself killed just like the others, only her machine would block some more bullets before she inevitably succumbed. Then they'd have to search for another genius mech pilot to satisfy their puerile fantasy.

 

_She didn't want that to happen._

 

Widowmaker didn't advert her eyes from suffering. She didn't enjoy it either – it was a byproduct of death, and she'd removed it from her killing process. Suffering meant death took longer than it should: she was a _killer_ , not a torturer.

 

That girl'd had a reprieve – was she even aware of the pain they'd inflicted on her? No, knowing these people, they'd most likely suppressed everything up until they obeyed their every command. For all intents and purposes, she was a newborn – she'd come into this world tuned exactly like they needed her.

 

They'd never tell her, but it was far from over.

 

 

_They wanted to alterate her. The first test run'd went beyond their expectations in every manner: but they were nothing if not perfectionist, and already they were analyzing, theorizing, calculating to maximize D.Va's effectiveness even further. She was a prototype, a rough outline of what she could become: they'd done fine work to perfectionate her on the mental level, that much was true._

 

_But there were still so many things they could change in her body. So many things she didn't need, things that went contrary to her purpose. Perhaps the hardest thing to decide would be where to begin._

 

 

D.Va stared at her hands. In her desperate, impotent rage, she'd punched her own fists bloody. How stupid of her – she felt ashamed. How was she supposed to pilot her mech if she destroyed what she piloted it with? She flexed her fingers, wincing from the pain this movement brought. The men in white'd healed most of the outward damage, but the pain'd remain for a while. What better way to teach her this lesson than by showing her the result of her mistakes?

 

_Widowmaker_ . She closed her fists tightly enough for her knuckles to whiten and her nerve endings to scream in agony. 

 

She'd impaired her from accomplishing her mission, stopped her dead just when it was starting to get  _exciting._ She was in the right – the men in white'd told her so. She couldn't put her trust in anyone except them, they'd said, they'd rebuilt her mech and her, they'd said, and they'd keep the both of them safe and sound, they'd said, with them she could play her game forever, they'd said. All of it, she knew to be true – it was as obvious as any other universal fact.

 

Yet, something bothered her.

 

The battle'd been a game, a competition – anything beyond that was bereft of importance. She'd entered it with no other intention but to win. The fortress, the guards, the guns, the god program, even her machine: all of it was an abstraction, things she didn't register beyond what they meant in the context of the game. The fortress was a level, the guards enemies, the guns a threat, the god program an objective to reach, the mecha her player character.

 

All she should have felt was glee and satisfaction that she'd put on such a performance. But there was something else here that robbed her of that sense of accomplishment, that clutched her heart like a closed fist and dried her throat. What was it?

 

She heard footsteps, and instantly recognized Widowmaker's particular gait – what startled her was that the blue-skinned was _right next to her_ even though the footfalls'd sounded faint. Of course she was quiet – this was part of her job as an assassin. Surprise gave way to anger on her features, and she sent her yet another glare that was met with utter indifference.

 

«You're adorable, _princesse_. Are you furious against me? You shouldn't be.» There was something different in her tone, a dispassion that contrasted with the subtle mix of contempt and reserved bemusement that permeated most of her words.

 

The only answer she got was a continued glare. Ah, kids... _never trust anyone under 20 with even breathing._ «I did not decide of our orders – that little button I pressed was just a safeguard. I couldn't have cared less if you'd continued messing around that facility. Do you think these lab rats are looking out for you? They're not. Trusting them's dangerous.»

 

D.Va's eyes narrowed. _Finally, a reaction!_ «They gave me my mech.»

 

«They can take it away just as easily. If you're willing to be their tool, they'll discard you as soon as they find a better one.»

 

The girl let out a derisive chuckle. «Why would they do that? No one's better than me! I'm the best possible pilot for the mech.» There was obvious pride in her tone – of course they hadn't ironed _that_ part of her out, the most obnoxious one.

 

She'd have found the brat's arguing supremely annoying, but there was something reassuring in it instead. At least... at least she _argued_. She had some fight in her, they hadn't turned into an empty-eyed, drooling simpleton incapable of feeding herself on her own. «Is this what the probers told you? They've droned on about that quite a lot... Here's a small but important nuance, _princesse_. It's not _you_ they need, it's your _skills_. They're not the same thing – not at all. They'll choose the latter over the former in a heartbeat. Don't think they're unable to separate the two.»

 

D.Va stared back. _Right, scratch «empty-eyed» out._ Such a conversation wasn't without risk – what if the stupid brat reported it to the lab rats? She wouldn't get away with just a stern talking-to. Internal politiquing plagued Talon like any other human organization in history, and even the best operatives weren't immune from its clutches...

 

...Why did she even _care?_ She felt nothing, seeing Talon grunts fall by the dozen. Why would that one girl be any different? There was a vague antipathy, a feeling of disgust that blossomed inside her gut whenever her eyes fell on one of these lab coats, on the _things_ they used to break atoms and people alike. It shouldn't have been here, and always remained in the background – yet she couldn't shake it off. The dislike'd come first, the reasons to justify it second – she'd learnt to ignore it, like she'd learnt to ignore most other things.

 

Until... until a needle'd punctured that girl's neck.

 

She'd wondered why, multiple times, and she wouldn't find an answer today either – but it made for a handy explanation now. Yes... she only _cared_ because she disliked these people, and it felt pleasant to push against them. No other reason was required. Why did she even _care?_

 

«It's up to you to fight for yourself. No one's going to do for you... certainly not _me.»_   She walked away, followed by D.Va's empty stare. _Better than nothing_ , she supposed.

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Other missions followed – different times, different places, but fundamentally all the same. An elaborate battery of trials, designed to test both pilot and machine. One day they raided one of Overwatch's old bases – the next they assassinated a target of value, and another one they stole cutting-edge technology for themselves.

 

Widowmaker accompanied her, often – they'd decided she'd indeed be the official _babysitter_ for the _brat,_ apparently. The excuse given was that their skillsets complimented themselves well, but she could smell another reason beneath it – as the most experienced operative by a long shot, they could always pin the blame of any failure on her. She was _supposed_ to keep her in check, after all, and the probers didn't want anything to come in the way of the completion of their latest project. 

 

She could have refused, but they knew she wouldn't – there was something immensely unpleasant in being boxed in and strongarmed into looking after the  _brat_ , and knowing that all of it was only a ploy to make certain that she wouldn't be able to interfere anymore. They were  _waiting_ for that one failure to happen, and then they'd be able to assign someone else to accompany the brat on missions...

 

...But failure didn't happen.

 

Some missions were difficult, some were intense, some derailed in ways they couldn't have predicted: she came out on top of them all, cleanly, perfectly. Widowmaker'd have been impressed if she wasn't so annoyed by the situation.

 

***

 

_First they made adjustments to the machine – making it quicker, stronger, refining it, purifying it, some lighter armor there, some more ammo for a certain weapon here. The mech's purpose had changed, and so the original design warped itself more and more: it'd started round, bulky and pink and soon became black, sleek and menacing, absurd firepower packed into a slim, vaguely pyramidal body and two larger legs that it could retract into itself for aerial combat._

 

_Then, when no more progress of a mechanical nature could be made, they turned their eyes to the pilot.  
_

 

***

 

The mech's inner systems hummed to life as she slid into the cockpit, a myriad of radars and sensors illuminating the inside with an orange light – she'd done this dozens of times now, and she'd gotten familiar with the feeling, but the sensation of protection and warmth remained just as reassuring. A mechanical whirr came from behind her: several plugs connected themselves to the base of her neck, her shoulders, and her spine – she remembered it feeling uncomfortable and intrusive the first few times, but she barely registered it now.

 

She closed two eyes, and opened sixteen. Three hundred and sixty degrees on every axis, with even better clarity than a human eye could provide: oh, yes, it'd been odd at first, but the sensation of omniscience became irreplaceable quickly. Light, heat, electromagnetic sources, radar signatures, distances – everything became obvious, a natural part of her perception.

 

Foreign chemicals entered her body, mixing themselves into a rapturous ambrosia that made the world around her feel deliciously slow and her thoughts delectably quick. She suffered when the time came to purge them out of her body, but she'd learnt that pain and withdrawal were a minuscle price to pay for mental perfection.

 

She moved her arm, and a limb of metal and carbon fiber moved with her. _Strenght, speed, resilience_. Nothing was too heavy for her to lift, too quick to hit, too strong to withstand. They'd had to strip some of her armor to make room for more destructive power – it didn't matter, because _nothing could hit her._

 

It was intoxicating.  _Power,_ that was what they'd given her, and in what amount!

 

Yet, the feeling of discomfort and unsatisfaction came back, every time she stepped out of the machine. Every instant spent inside the machine was pure bliss, and the pain and desorientation of the down time were hardly a deterrent. But  _this..._ in the emptiness of her withdrawal and craving for stimulation, it obsessed her. Her mind emptied itself, and this fist closed around her heart, this knot in her stomach filled the vacuum. Something wasn't right, but she didn't want to tell  _them_ – maybe they'd react badly and stop her from piloting. What purpose would she have if she couldn't pilot?

 

So she kept it to herself, and after every mission it grew. She'd started having nightmares. They were imprecise and illusive, like old nightmares always were: her mech was there, rampaging amidst a crowd of people, spilling gallons of blood with every passing second – and she was part of that crowd, the only one trying to survive amongst everyone else. She tried to run away, but the crowd blocked her, in every direction – she woke up a moment before death came.

 

No... it wasn't the moment to think about nightmares.

 

The time of her last trial had come.

 

***

 

It didn't take her long to catch sight of it. The Omnic towered over the horizon, several hundred thousand cubic meters of metal fashioned into something oddly humanoid: the typhoon was raging, rousing the sea into violent waves and raining down spears of water from the sjy. The downpour was barely a drizzle for the gargantuan machine, and it continued its inexorable advance towards land at a steady pace.

 

 _Busan_. The city was just a couple of kilometers away, its coastline barely visible in the stormy weather. The government'd evacuated it as soon as signs of the Omnic's return had surfaced, but it wouldn't stop here.

 

She stopped for an instant in sheer awe. A shiver ran down her spine – not fear, but something else.

 

Eight ants sped towards the machine, blue trails following them written against the grey of the sky. The Omnic's black armor illuminated itself with a city's worth of flickering lights, and a million moving parts spiked the colossal form with enough weapons to level an entire country. An instant of silence, and then hell was unleashed. The blue trails drew arabesques into the air, and her cue was given.

 

***

 

She flew low, cutting a shallow ridge in the tortured sea until she was right beneath the formation, standing in the machine's colossal shadow. Several dozen projectiles came: she serpentined past them with barely a tought. The sea exploded in clouds of steam as fusion bolts boiled the water in an instant: her targetting system locked onto one of the ants with a  _beep_ , and she fired.

 

Four red lights slalomed through the chaos of superheated matter and metal, first together, then separately: they encircled her target from four directions, then converged.  _One._

 

Her mech soared, already singling out another target: four signature-seeking missiles danced around plasma and met another machine in a violent explosion. _Two._

 

Her sudden assault broke the well-oiled formation – another pilot's focus slipped. That's all it took for a laser to reach them: the mech staggered in mid-air, losing momentum for an instant – then the shots swarmed it like piranhas to a wounded animal. _Three._ Horrifying accuracy along with absurd firepower – she was almost starting to _like_ that thing.

 

They were onto her. Five against one, along with the colossus pouring down a hail of death on them all – but it was fair.

 

The ballet began. They were talented, and their machines were _good_ , but she was superior. She could keep up with them and avoid the Omnic's fire; but _they_ couldn't keep up with _her_ and dodge death at the same time. They danced around the colossus for what felt like an eternity, diving, feinting, firing, activating their defense matrixes. _Four._ She caught one of them just as their defense matrix went down, and the Omnic did the rest. _Five._ A blue machine hit the water by error, slowing them down for a second, and it was over.

 

The giant swung its mechanical limbs wildly, annoyed by these ants' persistence in attacking it. She could feel the air displaced behind every movement, the wind each of these punches produced – one more difficulty, one more thing to be happy about.

 

Two left, speeding towards the silhouette of the city. One remained, probably to hold her off and buy the others some time – she'd identified the metallic, plain machine as the most dangerous. Its shots were accurate, its piloting precise and intelligent – it'd managed to take her by surprise and graze her, and without her enhancements she'd have been vaporized on the spot. Sharp as a razor, quicker than lightning.

 

She grinned inside of her helmet – finally, a challenge, someone who could push her to her absolute limits. There was no glory in triumphing without peril – perhaps that was the origin of that obsession, maybe the one thing she needed was an equal adversary to surpass.

 

Her grip tightened around the joysticks. 

 

_Come at me._

 

Now that they had no other safety than their own to worry about, they became quicker, more impredictable – now that it only had two targets to fire at, the Omnic's fire became far more continuous and focused. Neither of them could even afford to think: it was pure reflexes, muscle memory, a hundred gambits attempted and countered every second. Both soared, caught between two walls of superheated death one microsecond in the past and the future, lodged in the sole interstice not filled with immediate annihilation; the other mech was slower, but the pilot used that to their advantage, forcing her to fall into his pace lest she ran straight into the lasers.

 

The mech strafed to the right, deploying its defense matrix to intercept a barrage of the Omnic's shots: its arms snapped right at her, letting loose a burst of fusion rounds. It disappeared into smoke as her own matrix stopped the shots, and she counterattacked – this a thousand times, over and over again, until one of them slipped.

 

They both won – almost, a dozen times per second. Time became an abstraction – they'd only been fighting for half a minute, but every second stretched into eternity. Eventually she felt the Omnic's barrage of fire becoming thinner – either it was running out of ammunition or lulling them into a false sense of security. She gambled on the latter option, and didn't let up – neither did the other mech, to its pilot's credit.

 

An array of blue lights flickered out of the giant, straight upwards, spiraling, soaring into the sky until it disappeared into the grey above.

 

The barrage of fire stopped. A voice in her head screamed _something bad is going to happen,_ spoiling her focus for barely more than an instant _–_ the other mech _charged_ , straight at her through the matrix and the fusion bullets, and she reacted just a millisecond too late. Metal rammed against metal: inertia was on her opponent's side. She _felt_ the shock coursing through her body, echoing into her cranium and teeth: her hands pulled to the side to get out the way-

 

A buzzing drone boomed through the air, and an instant later a flash of light struck both mechs – one billion volts discharged in a single point in a single instant, raising the temperature by several tens of thousands of degrees. _Lightning_. The Omnic could command _lightning._ Almost as if the colossus knew she thought of herself as quicker than it and had wanted to demonstrate how wrong she was.

 

A shriek of pain perished in her throat. Every single means of perception became saturated as electricity coursed through her body. There was another physical shock, far more violent this time, but she barely felt it. A thought had come to her mind.

 

_This felt familiar_ . 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_She was still alive._

 

D.Va gasped reflexively as consciousness slipped back to her. Alive. There was pain, there was panic, but she was  _ alive. _ The disconnection from all her mech's onboard systems had been brutal, the plugs violently pulled away from the sockets on her body: she was more nauseous than she'd ever felt possible. A painful coughing fit tore her lungs apart and brought a coppery taste behind her lips: a wet spot on her chest was getting larger by the second while something in her abdomen jutted underneath her bodysuit, menacing to puncture it altogether.

 

Instinctively, she knew she should have been in horrible pain. The chemicals the mecha'd supplied her with were still in her blood, however, and dulled the biggest part of it – it wouldn't last, but she could use this temporary clarity to find her way back to safety.

 

_ Safety?  _ If this thing was still rampaging, nowhere within a couple dozen miles would be safe. Still, she had to try.

 

_Why did this feel familiar?_

 

She found her sidearm – a semi-automatic, suppressed blaster, tailor-made for her -, and kicked her way to freedom.

 

The mech'd finished its meteoric course into a block of flats, pulverizing the facade and almost managing to pierce through the entire building. She looked at the ruined machine – its form was barely recognizable, a heap of scrap and broken carbon fiber that had managed, by some miracle, to protect her. Something welled up inside her throat – she turned and walked away before any emotion could overwhelm her.  _ Stupid.  _ Attachment to a machine was  _ stupid _ .

 

An eerie silence inhabited the city's streets – right, she was in Busan, the city'd been evacuated as the Omnic was continuing its inexorable march towards land. She could hear the continuous crash of thunder in the distance, punctuating the monster's every step and heralding the coming apocalypse. Nothing could stop it now, not without a gigantic cost in human lives.

 

She had to move – help would come, but not immediately. They could track her bodysuit, so she could safely put some distance between the mech and her.

 

She picked the direction opposite of the Omnic, and walked. Her legs felt weak, and her right one in particular sent pain coursing through her side with every movement – other things came to the forefront of her mind, a perfect distraction from her physical anguish.

 

Again, she saw the mechs falling to her and the Omnic's combined might, vaporized in a single instant without the slightest chance. The pilots wouldn't have suffered for long – she surprised herself, thinking about them. She shivered – empathy was useless, something that got in the way of successfully completing a mission and needed to be purified away from an efficient mind.

 

Yet she  _ imagined, anticipated _ the sensation of life one instant being replaced by the vast nothingness of death the next. An uncomfortable realization wormed its way into her mind

 

_ Death _ . She'd killed people by the dozen – by the hundred, maybe. They'd awoken one day, unaware that it'd be their last and that death would strike before they could even see, much less prepare for it. They'd had plans for the next day, most likely, for the next minute, for the next  _ second _ : no part of their mind had even considered the possibility of it never coming. 

 

_ Killed _ . The mech's body was her own, its canons merely an extension of it she could take on and off on a whim. Every last drop of blood it'd spilt stained her hands – she was a  _ killer. _

 

Never had her mind wandered to these places, never had it seen fit to. Why now? She tried to push these thoughts away into a corner of her conscience, push them so hard they'd be crushed into nothing – but she couldn't. This was bad – _ she  _ was bad. They'd built this mech for her, outfitted it with the best weapons and systems technology could provide, let her go on her own for this last mission – and what had she done with that trust? She'd let two mechs escape, she'd gotten her own machine totaled beyond repair, hell, maybe  _ she  _ wouldn't survive either, and then she'd have been nothing more than a colossal waste of time and talent-

 

_ No.  _ No, she wasn't going to cry, despite how tempting it was. She'd cried once, when Widowmaker had trapped her inside her own mech – it was a sign of weakness and helplessness. She was neither weak nor helpless, she was  _ D.Va.  _ Her helmet felt incredibly heavy – she took a long gulp of air as she took it off

 

The typhoon's wind lashed hard against her petite frame, and she stepped into an adjacent street, hoping to find some cover between taller buildings.

 

The cover she found became irrelevant an instant later.

 

The man was seated on the sidewalk, slumped over but still conscious. Ragged breathing shook his tall frame, each expiration bringing violent shudders with it. Dark, short hair, strong shoulders, lean muscles. She saw his bodysuit – torn in several places, showing cuts and nasty bruises all over -, and his identity became obvious. Just  _ had _ to survive his crash and give her more work, didn't he? He had a weapon at his side, a blaster quite similar to her own.

 

His head moved slighly. An instant later, he whipped around, levelling his gun on her before she could even start her own movement.  _ Fast, in and out of his mech. _ She froze up, index finger crooked over the trigger. A deep cut ran across the left side of his forehead, gushing a stream of blood that'd forced his eye shut. His open eye glared at her with icy determination...

 

...Then it widened. «Hana?»

 

His aim faltered for a second, his fingers' hold on the grip loosened, the gun's barrel moved away from her – she didn't hesitate.

 

It happened in a split-second. Her blaster snapped at the center of his mass, not an inch too high or too low. His eye moved to it, while reflexes kicked in and he retrained his own gun on her. «Han-»

 

She fired. There was a red, fleshy explosion as the round punctured through skin and bone, destroying the man's diaphragm like it was made of paper. His weapon fired in an arc as he violently hit the ground – pain exploded into her right hand, there was a _ crack, _ she saw her blaster flying out of her reach, her legs gave out from underneath her.

 

There was an explosion of pain – floodgates in her mind breached open, and a waterfall of memories came rushing, idea after idea  _ after idea _ , with nothing left to hold them back-

 

_ Hana. _ A few desperate gasps for air escaped the man's twitching, broken form.

 

_ Hana. _ She knew that  _ name _ , she'd heard it said by that very voice, she knew that  _ voice, _ deep, rounded, she knew that  _ face- _

 

_ Hana.  _ The gasps grew weaker, life started to abandon the man's body in a red cascade on the concrete.

 

_ Hana.  _ She knew the man's name, she knew who he  _ was. Rick Kyung _ , twenty-five years old, she  _ knew  _ him, she  _ liked  _ him, she'd felt happy for him when he'd told them all he'd gotten engaged to his girlfriend-

 

_ Them all. _ She remembered. A team. She knew each of them, personally, friends, dearest to her than anyone else in the world, all decorating their mechs differently. Their mission-

 

_ Their mission _ was to stop that giant Omnic, patiently waiting at the bottom of the sea, reconfiguring itself, adapting for its next assault. Ready to take flight at a moment's notice and put their lives on the line-

 

_ Their lives _ . They'd been in those machines, piloting them as the giant made its way towards the city. She'd come and-

 

_ Killed them. _ They'd died, and she was responsible for every single one of their deaths. If she hadn't been here, they'd be  _ alive _ , and maybe the Omnic could have been stopped.

 

She crawled over to Rick, desperately, hurriedly, ignoring the pain her broken fingers sent through her entire arm. «I'm sorry,  _ I'm sorry _ , Rick, I'm-» He wasn't moving –  _ so much blood, everywhere _ . He was pale,  _ so pale _ , the red of his blood contrasted horribly against his skin –  _ her fault, it was her fault- _

 

His eyes were vacant, staring at the void above, immobile. « _ Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry-» _  His chest wasn't rising – she slumped down, listening for his breath.

 

There was none.  _ No, no, no, nononono- _

 

It wasn't true. Wasn't possible – he couldn't be... Couldn't be... He was  _ Rick _ , he was strong, he couldn't  _ die  _ like this...

 

She brought her hands to his chest, and pressed down,  _ down, again and again – _ it was a stupid attempt at life-saving, but panic had taken over her, and she didn't think. She stained herself with his blood more with every push, and her mind with more panic – eventually she couldn't find the strenght to push anymore, and she collapsed.

 

She wailed, cried, begged for his and everyone else's forgiveness until her vocal chords refused to articulate anymore. Rick, her teammates, those she'd killed without mercy, without thought, those she'd seen as nothing but more targets to shoot down, more points to rack up in a game – faceless, nameless, but it didn't matter. They were  _ people _ , and she'd killed them.  _ Her fault. _ It was all her damn fault.

 

She begged for forgiveness, but no one answered – what had she been expecting?

 

D.Va disappeared, replaced by Hana Song. She'd had no choice, but it didn't matter. It was a harsh thing, taking a life for the first time. It was several dozen murders that dawned on her at the same instant, a torrent of blood bathing her hands.

 

_ Disgust. _ She wanted to vomit, hoping that everything would come out of her and she'd be left empty, just so she could not be  _ that person _ in  _ that body  _ anymore.

 

She didn't know how long she remained there, slumped over Rick's corpse, crying and trembling. The click of heels on concrete came from behind her, but nothing outside the pocket of space including Rick and her mattered. Talon... she'd spent all her capacity to loathe and hate on herself, for the moment, so the organization didn't inspire anything beyond a vague disgust.

 

«...What are you doing?» Widowmaker. Always the same cold, contemptuous tone – never had it felt worse than now, but she was past caring. Widowmaker was a killer – but so was she. Hana didn't respond, and a few seconds passed.

 

_ Sigh. _ She couldn't start to imagine what had led to this situation – the brat weeping over a man's body, covered in blood - but her job was to retrieve her, and the gigantic robot looming over the horizon didn't exactly leave them with much time to talk it out. And to tell the truth? She had no patience to spare for the brat. A dead body was a dead body.

 

«I'm not sure what happened here,  _ princesse _ , but it's my job to fly you out of there. So come along quickly.» No answer, again –  _ fine, then.  _ If she had to drag the brat back to base...

 

She reached for Hana's arm, and pulled. She felt the slim body tense up under her fingers, and a second later she was staring right down a gun's barrel. The brat said something in a language she didn't recognize – Korean, most likely.

 

_ Oh, great. _ Honed reflexes kicked in: Widowmaker's reaction was quick, immediate, surgically precise. The blaster was out of Hana's hand before she could even think of pulling the trigger – but the girl didn't give up. She struggled like a wild animal, kicking, clawing, biting to fight off her opponent. Widowmaker's expression went from mild annoyance to amusement – it was  _ cute, _ in its own way. She eyed a spot on the bodysuit, where something beneath was protruding out and blood was pooling – a quick jab here would stop the struggling in the bat of an eye. She clenched her fist...

 

...No. That was unnecessary. They'd use that against her if the brat peeped about it - make her responsible for the wound, even.

 

That was what she told herself: but the justification was weak, a sloppy attempt at vindicating the fact that  _ she did not want to do it. _ Still, they didn't have all day, and waiting for blood loss to drop her down wasn't a safe or reliable option.

 

«Calm. Down.» In a single, fluid movement, she pushed the girl away from her, launched her grappling hook, moved the cable mid-flight – it wrapped around Hana's upper body like a steel rope, quickly, efficiently, before tightening as she reeled it back in. The girl fell to her knees with a yelp, and her struggling continued until Widowmaker pinned her down with her foot. Cruel, but far less than her first option. «That Omnic's coming. You either come on your own or I drag you by force.» 

 

She babbled something in Korean, sobbing between every word – _wonderful, now she was crying again_. «English, _princesse._ » She heard Hana gulp loudly, her eyes darting around before finally looking up towards her.

 

«We can't... we can't leave him here.» She was _begging._ Her instincts would have commanded Widowmaker to ignore the pleading and drag the brat back to their getaway – but she was stupid, and she _listened_ , for some godforsaken reason. Maybe... maybe the body could be valuable. What a _stupid_ justification – she felt ashamed even letting it run through her brain.

 

«Who was he?» 

 

«Rick. He was a friend, he... he piloted a mech. Like me.»  Hana's voice quivered while tears pooled into her eyes.

 

Understanding hit Widowmaker like a bat to the forehead. _Of course._ Seeing her friend had unearthed buried memories inside the girl, something deep within her that the probers hadn't managed to destroy – there were a lot of things they could do, but destroying a personality completely wasn't one of them. All the floodgates, bursting open at once – she knew they'd done a sloppy job, but she hadn't imagined they'd screw up _that_ badly.

 

«I k- I killed... I killed him. I killed all of them... It's my fault.»  An image flashed in Widowmaker's brain-

 

_She'd been staring at him for several minutes, long enough for her eyes to be accustomized to the dark, observing his chest falling and rising under the covers, detailing every vein bulging out of his muscular neck, listening to his calm breathing. The handle of the knife felt colder than ice in her hand. She'd waited for the clock to show 2:00, and then she'd struck._

 

-Grotesque. Utterly grotesque. She eyed the bloodied corpse, a deep frown arching her lips downwards. «He doesn't deserve to be this way, please... Please, just take him somewhere else.» 

 

Another look towards that cadaver. _Stupid brat, stupid body, and stupid herself on top of it all._

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

She'd dreaded even the thought of the return flight, having to put up with the brat for several hours – but things had been... a little _different_ from what she'd expected. 

 

A black body bag laid on the metallic floor, unzipped at the top to bare the body within for all to see. Hana'd done everything within her diminished ability to give Rick a speckle of dignity in death: his eyes had been closed, the blood –  _so much of it –_ staining his chin wiped clean, his arms crossed over his chest. It wasn't enough, because nothing would ever be: but at least it gave her some small purpose in this moment of anguish. She'd failed Rick, perhaps she could manage not to fail his corpse. 

 

The autopilot handled everything for them, guiding the aircraft on a ride so smooth it was hard to believe a storm was raging outside. Waiting several hours doing nothing was something Widowmaker's work asked of her every day – hours could become seconds, if she wished them to, just to make sure she'd be there at the perfect instant. Yet being in that corpse's presence, in that  _girl_ 's presence, stretched them into a torturous eternity. 

 

The image flashed before her eyes once more – herself, the sleeping man, the dark bedroom, the knife in her hand. Every flash brought more precision to the picture, a detail of the room here, a new stimulation to register there, ceaseless, vertiginous, her mind completing the puzzle of a memory and adding more pieces to it with every passing second.

 

A sensation she'd forgotten came, too, that of chilly air against her skin – this, more than the knowledge of what had come afterwards, sent dead fingers crawling down her spine. Nerves she didn't even have anymore, overloading her brain with utterly senseless information – pushing the thought away should have been easy, but it wasn't. Something... no, _someone_ was in there, trying to keep these sensations to the foreground and stop her from registering anything else.

 

_Insane._ She was going  _insane._

 

She turned around on her seat, eyeing Hana and the body bag. This, too, was bad. Worse than any physical injury. Who would they blame? Her, of course. This was what the probers'd been waiting for, something to pin on her to get her out of the way cleanly and efficiently. An undesirable influence since the beginning, they'd say, and the truth was that they wouldn't even be wrong.

 

This... was more than a matter of displeasing them for its own sake, however. Their little experiment'd come undone at its moment of consecraction – the mech was nothing, compared to the unraveling of the personallity they'd carefully crafted. If she ended up taking the fall for it – and she would -, she could look forward to more than just stern words. If they had to make an example out of her, they would.

 

She could buy some time.

 

«Hey.» Her tone was stern, but Hana's inner turmoil had sucked away too much of her capacity for attention to notice. Widowmaker darted up from the pilot's seat, making a beeline for the girl and slamming her heels down on the floor. « _You._ » 

 

Still no response – Hana's eyes were fixated on the immobile face of her dead friend. It didn't matter. She had something to say, and she'd say it  _now._

 

«Don't talk about any of this to anyone. If they find out... let's just say it won't be pleasant for the both of us. Understood?»

 

No movement shifted the girl's body, but she did reply. «About  _what?_ »

 

«You know what I'm talking about,  _princesse_ .»

 

«I don't.» 

 

Widowmaker sighed. Of course, she had to play dumb. Or... maybe she _was_ actually dumb? «You know, this little thing that happened between your two ears?  It's important, very important. You've changed, and it's bad.»

 

«And what if I _have_?» There was an undercurrent of contempt in the girl's tone – Widowmaker was tired of talking to the top of Hana's cranium. She stepped over the body bag in an instant, clenched Hana's jaw, jerked her head up so that she couldn't escape her gaze. The girl struggled against the ironclad grip, to no avail, as Widowmaker brought her face close enough to feel Hana's breath on her face.

 

« _If you have_ , then they'll do everything in their power to change you back. You're their property, now, they _invested_ too much in you. Are you hoping they'll get rid of you quickly and painlessly and be done with it?» Just by watching Hana's expression, she knew she'd struck a nerve. _I can read you like an open book._ The girl's expression was also one of obstinate silence, so she continued on.

 

«Or maybe you think you can end it all before they realize what happened? You got injured during your mission. They'll put you under close watch, you won't even have a second to try anything. _Don't look around for your gun_. You're not blowing your brains out on _my_ watch.» Still the same expression, looking at nothing, mouth shut and crooked into a frown. It was fine; she had more to say.

 

«You don't care, do you?» Hana shook her head, lightly, as much as Widowmaker's iron grip allowed her to. Of course. Several dozen murders, dawning on her at the same moment, just as the body of her dear friend hit the ground – inner peace wouldn't come any time soon.

 

«Why should I? I'm... I'm a murderer. I killed them. It doesn't matter what happens to me, I just want to-»

 

_«Shut up._ » Widowmaker's lips curled into a scowl – what was that thing rushing to her head, that fire burning inside her lungs? «You don't care about what happens to you – that's fine. But if they see you like this,  _I'm_ gonna be in trouble. You're still just a brat, watching over you's my job. They'll say it's my fault, pin this on me like the rats they are. Then I'm not even sure how they'll deal with me.» She wasn't frightened, no – simply angered by this girl's stupidity, by how it got in the way of her continued survival. 

 

Again, the same closed-off expression. Of course she wasn't touched any of this: she was an assassin, a murderer, another servant of those who'd changed her and turned her into a killing machine. Of all things,  _hatred_ was a privilege she'd more than earned.

 

It could be useful, hatred. Nothing inhabited Widowmaker's heart besides cold indifference and contempt for everyone around her – potential targets, the lots of them, she never stopped thinking of possible angles to attack from, possible places to hide, potential escape routes. Talon? They weren't any different. Only the cause mattered, she only tolerated them their objectives aligned.

 

But not anymore. Now she  _hated_ them. Dangerous, counter-productive, unable to let go of their own egos. They'd groomed D.Va to be their masterpiece, taking offense when she'd tried to temperate their idiotic enthusiasm. And she'd been right: the proof that D.Va had been far from ready was right there, packed into a body bag on the floor of their plane. But they wouldn't accept it, and she'd pay for their mistake.

 

«Then  _die!_  They can torture you all they want, I'll be  _happy!»_ The venomous scorn in Hana's voice was almost pleasant to the ear. «I'm not doing anything for your sake!»

 

«Then do it for _his_.» She tilted her head in the body's direction, keeping her eyes firmly planted in Hana's. The girl's expression shifted to the quizzical, and for a moment Widowmaker felt annoyed by the sheer thickness of that brat. «They'll purify all thoughts of friendship away from your brain. All thoughts of affection, love... All these things they can't use. But they won't eliminate his memory, oh no... What was his name again, Rick? Rick will remain in here. They'll make you despise him, they'll turn him into an obstacle that you'll have overcome. You'll feel _proud_ of everything you've done, every single death, every single drop of blood, every building rased because no one was here to stop that Omnic...»

 

It _was_ sinking in. Hana was at a loss for words, her eyes darting around wildly – from the boy to Widowmaker and back again, to the walls of the place, wherever her racing mind would take them.

 

«...And they'll use that to make you do it again. Some of your friends escaped, didn't they? They'll have you hunt them down, just to strike these names off the list. You'll kill them, and do you know what will happen next? Nothing. You won't grieve for them. They'll become just one more death amongst hundreds. You'll remain a murderer, just like me...»

 

«Stop it...» 

 

«Then they'll plug everything they don't need away from you. Your legs, your feet, maybe even your arms, your hands, your eyes. They'll only leave what they want in there, perhaps they'll just put your brain inside a machine and be done with it. They'll switch you on and off when they need to. Is that what you want to become? They won't lave you a choice in the matter.»

 

« _Stop it!_ » 

 

Hana moved suddenly and violently, wrestling Widowmaker's hand away from her face with a brutality that belied her petite frame. It remained aloft for a second, motionless as pleased surprise stretched her features.

 

«Do you want to live?» 

 

A moment of hesitation. Then Hana nodded.

 

«Good. Now listen to me...»  

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

The ramp at the back of the aircraft opened, flooding the interior and assaulting Hana's eyes with bright, artificial light. Widowmaker sent her a last, quick glance from the corner of her eye before walking out into the hangar.

 

A few seconds passed. Four people walked into the plane, two men carrying a stretcher followed by a man and a bespectacled woman. Violent hatred welled up inside her chest as she recognized those who'd transformed her into what she'd been – but she had to hide it, Hana had to withdraw once more, so that she could play D.Va.

 

Carefully, they laid her down on the stretcher. Several lights lit up around its edge, projecting beams of light over her body. It analyzed her, quickly established her wounds to win some time before they could start fixing her up. She was familiar with these – any Korean hospital worth their salt owned at least a couple. It felt violating, being scrutinized down to her smallest vein by these people – but she had to hide it. The bespectacled woman read something on a small, rectangular screen she was holding in her hand as they carried her to the infirmary.

 

Going through the motions. She found a drop of humor into this ocean of unpleasantness in the fact that her experience in acting would finally help her.

 

They asked her how she felt. She said she felt well. It wasn't true, but it was the answer they expected.

 

They asked what had happened. She told them the truth, up until the moment she'd collapsed on Rick's body.

 

They asked about the mech. She told them the truth.

 

They _continued_ to question her about the mech. She repeated the truth, once more. 

 

It hadn't been these two people who'd built her mech – losing it was a colossal waste for sure, but it remained secondary compared to  _her_ state, to  _their_ investment. Four broken ribs, three broken fingers, an ankle fracture, more contusions than they'd seen fit to count – countless medical terms that she was only distantly familiar with were thrown around her, but she understood that something was wrong with-

 

-The plugs they'd put into her. That was why she felt sick as a dog – the worst of withdrawal was past her (and, truth be told, she'd barely felt it), but what was left of it was enough to bring her stomach dangerously close to her lips. She'd gotten so used to them - feeling of these  _things_ framing her spine, digging through her skin, violating her deepest intimacy by their simple existence - that a simple thought was enough to bring an unpleasant taste at the back of her throat.

 

It took her a handful of seconds to realize the bespectacled woman was adressing her. She blinked like a deer in headlights, prompting the woman to repeat it – Hana knew this was a slip-up on her part by the furrowing of the woman's brow. Never had she had to repeat a question before. «Why did you bring back a body with you?» 

 

Of course. Had she been expecting to escape that particular line of questioning? Widowmaker had instructed her on what to answer, and even she'd had to admit she was right, that her solution was the safest. She answered, but every word felt like another bullet she fired into Rick's body. «To make a trophy. He gave me my best challenge yet, but... I won. He's nothing now that I've overcome him. I wanted to... commemorate.» Going through the motions, doing what she had to to survive. The two handlers exchanged a glance, and a slight smile had come to the bespectacled woman's lips when she turned back to her.

 

«Very good.»

 

The ceiling suddenly turned bright, so bright she had to look away. The stretcher was lowered – she knew that room, she'd seen it before. When...?

 

The air took a cottony texture as someone placed a light, transparent apparatus over her lower face – panic pushed reason away for an instant as the anaesthetic dulled her senses and pulled her into chemical darkness, hundreds of phantomatic arms, pushing her down, down, _down_ until light faded away. The thought of being truly vulnerable, truly _naked_ filled her mind with abject terror – she was almost thankful that movement had become impossible through the prison of unconsciousness, because she _knew_ she'd have blown her cover right here and there.

 

Yes, she knew that room. How long had it been since she'd arrived in this godforsaken place, for how long had she been  _gone_ ? How long had her family, her companions, her fans, too, lived with the atrocious question mark of her whereabouts above their heads? And what would they do once they  _learned?_ She'd feel sick to her stomach, even looking into a mirror...

 

Just like the first time, her thoughts vanished into smoke, and she plunged into nothingness.

 

 

She'd never been more acutely aware of every single little movement that went into the act of breathing, every single muscle, bone, blood vessel – they'd fixed her up, yes, and it wasn't painful per se, but it was awkward, and made focusing on other things difficult. All the wonders of medical technology could hardly change the fact that bodies rarely did agree with this kind of abuse. A day of rest, and then they'd finish fixing her – they'd gone the slow way, for once.

 

She eyed the bottle of pills sitting at her bedside. She'd had the privilege of private quarters: barely big enough to deserve the name of _closet –_ it was grey, cramped, ugly -, truth be told, but at the very least she had her own bed.

 

_Pills_ . She'd categorically decided to never even touch them, starting from the moment the bespectacled woman handed them to her and told her to take two if she felt dizzy. But she  _was_ feeling nauseous and clammy, devoured by a thirst that no amount of water seemed to be capable of quenching. What was she risking, why would have they lied about the pills? 

 

No, no,  _no_ , it was a bad idea, taking anything they'd give her, it'd dull her senses and make her vulnerable. She was content to lie down on her bed, desperately clinging to a dim hope that slumber would take her and shorten the time she'd perceive waiting for tomorrow to come.

 

...Widowmaker was here. Why? When had she walked in? She sat down at the edge of her bed without the slightest hint of consideration, not even bothering to face her.

 

«You should take those things. It'd be just a little less terrible for you». 

 

The temptation to lash out was strong, but Hana had neither the will nor energy to do anything more than close her eyes and lie back. A coughing fit tore her throat to pieces, then she talked. «What are you doing here?»

 

«Checking up on you, I suppose.» Widowmaker answered after a couple of seconds.

 

«I'll be fine. Just... go away.» 

 

She didn't. Silence fell between the two of them, and a very aggravated Hana spoke again. «Why are you even doing this? Helping me like that, what's the point?»

 

A derisive chuckle came from the back of Widowmaker's head. «You're my ticket out of here. That's the point, _princesse_. I shouldn't have to tell you again.» 

 

Hana shook her head. «Not true.»

 

A slight movement, a subtle change in Widowmaker's posture. _Finally_ , she'd found some crack into the shell. «Me being here or not won't change anything. You could just... walk out and hide, with or without me. Hell, I must be just a liability to you.»

 

«...Are you trying to convince me to leave you behind?» 

 

«No, I just want the truth. I can't trust you otherwise.» 

 

A derisive chuckle shook Widowmaker's shoulders. «Good thing, because you shouldn't. You can't trust anyone here, especially not me.»

 

Hana took a deep breath, closing her eyes so that the lights in the room would stop spinning around her. «Why are you helping me? I know I'm annoying to you. So why?» she repeated. It was dangerous to have this conversation, she knew it, for several reasons – but she _needed_ to know, she _needed_ to talk about something to someone. Not pour her heart out, but... simply _talk_ about anything, just to distract herself from her nausea, both physical and mental.

 

«If they had a mic in this room, there'd already fifteen men in this room pointing their guns at us.» Widowmaker deadpanned.

 

A chill ran down Hana's spine, but before she could formulate a thought about it the blue-skinned woman added: «They do, but I have my own gadgets. Better not push your luck, though, _princesse,_ they may not be smart, but even they can push a few buttons and catch us red-handed _._ » 

 

She could breathe. Of course, she'd done this just to get a rise out of her. «Then let's be quick. _Why?_ »

 

The pictures were still flashing in front of her eyes - always similar, always the same situation, but definition was added to them. She'd understood, now, the meaning of it had sunk in.  

 

She knew the name of the sleeping man. She knew the name of the street beyond the closed blinds, even the brand of the cars driving on the pavement. The puzzle wasn't complete, but close enough for the overall picture to become obvious.

 

« _Gérard._ » 

 

A name. Widowmaker let it float into the air for a few instants - there was something warmer in her voice whenever she voiced these two syllabes.

 

« _Gérard Lacroix_. He was... an important member of Overwatch. You know what Overwatch is, right...? Yes, of course, everyone does. Gérard was my husband.»

 

_Husband._ It hadn't gone through Hana's head that Widowmaker, the living weapon, the cold-blooded assassin, could have had someone in her life she could call  _husband._ And someone from...?

 

«He was one of their best agents. Talon couldn't ever manage to get a leg up on him, he was just that good of an agent... And I was his wife, his anchor into the real world. His sweet, sweet Amélie.  _Son trésor, la prunelle de ses yeux_ . He was everything for me, and I was everything for him. Can you guess what happened?» Widowmaker's calm, standoffish demeanor – it hadn't vanished, but her voice quivered with every word. 

 

«They chose that name for me...  _Widowmaker_ .  _La faiseuse de veuves_ . They kidnapped me, turned me into... _this_ , then they got just sloppy enough for Overwatch to find me.» A shuddering breath rattled the purple-skinned woman's slender form.

 

Then she moved. A purple blur, and she was right on top of her, pinning her down, right hand covering her mouth, eyes planted into hers like a pair of daggers. Hana yelped a muffled scream when Widowmaker jabbed a gloved thumb to the side of her neck, but she was too weak to struggle.

 

Widowmaker's voice sloped into a nightmarishly low growl, her mouth distorted into an animalistoc snarl, every syllabe out of her mouth an expression of pure hatred and rage. «Like  _this._ I took a knife from the kitchen, hid it under my pillow. I waited until he was sleeping, then I took the knife. He wasn't expecting it, he was just happy he'd gotten his wife back, the idiot, he didn't wonder if anything was wrong with his sweet Amélie-» 

 

«I put the knife to his carotid. I counted to three, and then...» Her finger travelled across Hana's neck. 

 

«I held him down. I felt his blood on me, it was warm, and there was so much of it. He...» 

 

The growl broke, and the murderous stare veiled itself with a misty sheen. «He opened his eyes. He  _looked_ at me. I saw... He didn't understand, he  _wanted_  to understand, but he was losing so much blood, his body was failing, he  _couldn't understand_ , and I looked at him like he was a chunk of meat, a cadaver just waiting to stop moving.. I didn't budge until I could feel his heart stop beating. I know, I know what he was wondering. Only one question.  _Why?»_

 

She let go of her mouth and neck, brought up her hands to stare at a blood only her could see. «He died, he _knew_ he was going to die. It was over so quickly, but it must have been... Long, so, so long for him. And you know what? I...» She whispered: «... _Didn't feel a thing._ »

 

Was there anything appropriate she could have said? Nothing came to mind. Hana stared in blank horror, barely aware of the fact that Widowmaker was still pinning her down.

 

«He died, and I lived, and lived, and lived, and lived, and lived. I went back to them, and then they... continued working on me. They excised what they hadn't before with their scalpels and tubes and... You know what they do to you, don't you?» She looked up from her hands, directly into Hana's eyes. She was _pleading_ , asking her to show a measure of understanding in this moment of... _what_ exactly?

 

«I...» Stunned. Amélie's words echoed in her mind, painting an image that struck her as nothing but ghastly. Hana remained slack-jawed and silent, all the possible answers she could give to that story revelaing themselves as thoroughly awful before she could voice them.

 

She remained quiet an instant too long.

 

Everything in Amélie's attitude shifted in one moment, right back to the cruel steeliness of Widowmaker. «You don't believe me, do you.» she said in a voice vibrating with understated menace. The woman moved off and away from her in one fluid, graceful movement, turning her back to her. Widowmaker's fists tightened, and her voice dropped even lower.

 

«It doesn't matter. I want revenge - I'll scrub all of them off the face of the Earth. I'm feeling generous, so I'll allow you to pursue the same goal. They maimed me, but what they turned me into can still be useful for that purpose. The same goes for you.» She extended an arm in the pills' direction. «You should take these. Do you know why you feel like you do at this moment? You didn't catch a cold. It's withdrawal. Your body needs the stuff they've pumped into you, now.»

 

She eyed the bottle. Withdrawal. _Of course._

 

Widowmaker stepped out of the room, sliding the door closed behind her. Before she walked away, Hana heard one last thing.

 

« _Les choses... vont devenir intéressantes.»_  

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter today. Regular chapters will resume after this.

The destruction of her mech had thrown a spanner in Talon's works: but they hadn't pushed their carelessness to the point of foregoing schematics or backups. Building an acceptable replacement to the machine, a tool fit for the pilot they'd raised, would take them some time – an information Widowmaker learnt with a discreet grin. _Excellent_. More time to plan. 

 

She already had a fairly precise idea of her course of action. Quick and devastating – she'd get one try, and only one, so she'd have to make it count. Getting out of Talon's base wasn't the hard part: managing to  _stay_ out of it and disappear was. 

 

One thing was clear. She wouldn't accompany the brat on her next mission – so she'd have to invite herself in.

 

 

Boredom. A machine didn't feel boredom, so Hana's handlers hadn't seen fit to give her anything to alleviate it – it didn't mean they hadn't put this period of time to good use, however. 

 

If she couldn't pilot her mech for the moment, they'd teach her to pilot other things. The reflexes and instincts would carry over – the only thing left to teach were the mechanical skills, the subtle differences in piloting brought by the different shape, engine and function. Not that it'd ever be her main function, they thought – but it was an useful skill to possess nonetheless, and an exercise to keep her reflexes and reactions perfectly honed.

 

She didn't mind. Hana was aware of the use  _these people_ wanted to make of her skills: the idea of even vindicating them in their beliefs and aspirations was enough to bring a profound sense of disgust deep within her stomach. But there was something satisfying, something reassuring, in the ease with which she learnt the mechanics, the agility of her hands and fingers on the commands, the familiarity of the protocols and maneuvers. The simple feeling of something  _going well_ , of a few moments of ease in a difficult situation. 

 

Days followed one another, each of them precisely the same as the last. The food didn't change: a machine didn't protest what its masters fed it.

 

Yet she doubted she'd feel comfortable piloting a mech any time soon. Too much blood'd been spilt by these hands, piloting these machines: it didn't matter that the people she'd go back to wouldn't set her against humans. 

 

_The people she'd go back to._ Who exactly? Her comrades deserved... More than she could ever possibly try to give. Falling to her knees and begging for forgiveness was the least of it – and that was for those still alive. For the dead...

 

She glanced at the small glass container, sitting enthroned on the shelf of her personal room, filled with grey dust. Rick's ashes. She'd told them she wanted a trophy, and that was what she'd been given – her handlers were happy about her demand, it meant she was starting to devellop the mindset and personality they'd been pining for. A few handfuls of ash were all that was left of Rick Kyung, the MEKA pilot, the professional gamer, someone who'd never failed to have her or everyone else's back in the middle of danger, above all a dear friend.

 

…She had no idea what to do about the dead.

 

_Go back._ What if people didn't want her to go back?

 

A lingering doubt crept in the profound recesses of her mind, a dark, heaving beast waiting for an opportunity to strike. Even if she returned to the Korean military... what would they do with her? Even if they didn't learn who she'd been working for, - and they would, it was their job to learn these things - she was still a mech pilot who'd gone MIA for several months. The shadow of North Korean espionage still loomed over the country after all these years, amongst other threats, and...

 

...Even if people didn't learn, if the way they looked at her didn't change, what would she see in their eyes? It didn't matter how much love they showed, how much they cared for her, if the only thing she saw in their eyes was contempt or wariness-

 

Was that a part of their brainwashing? Was it so devious that she'd be the one who'd convince herself of the uselessness of her escape? Put so much guilt upon her shoulders that she'd crawl back where they wanted her to be, a confident  _D.Va_ unburdened by such human considerations?

 

She knew it wasn't her fault, she knew her mind wasn't her own as she'd torn through people like they were-

 

\- like they were pixels on a screen. Yes, she distinctly remembered that thought going through her head, when she'd slaughtered her merry way through that base in Bolivia. But what did it change? It was her hands all the same – maybe she was selfish, allowing herself to be overcome by these irrational feelings of guilt. But they gave her a purpose.

 

_Nowhere to go._ The simple thought was enough for something to well up in her throat – but she was a machine, and a machine didn't show weakness. 

 

She took two pills. She felt her perception quickening, her pupils dilating, the cocktail of chemicals liberating itself into her body. She'd pay for it later, but for the moment, Hana needed to be strong. Widowmaker'd plan remained unspoken, and being ready when she'd put it into motion was capital.

 

***

 

Electricity was in the air. She could feel it. 

 

Truth be told? She had no idea if her plan would work. More time'd have allowed her more flexing room, more planning, more options if something went wrong – but every passing second was another risk taken. The brat could slip up, the probers could decide to go ahead and take their sweet revenge against her – time was against her, and she knew for a fact victory against it was all but impossible.

 

Chaos. The solution was to cause chaos – funny, how Talon's downfall would be brought about by its very  _ modus operandi _ . She cared little about poetic justice – but it'd be a good bonus.

 

The biggest threat was Reaper. The small fry she could deal with – she was stronger, faster, better-equipped than any of them. He was on a whole other level, however. Arrogant, for sure, prone to pointless gloating as well: but she'd seen him shrug off injuries ghastly enough to kill other men on the spot, witnessed his wounds disappearing into nonexistence as he turned nearby unfortunates into lifeless husks. He could phase through hails of gunfire if he wished to, and as for his shotguns... she was dead to rights if she allowed him within five meters of her. His failures were the exception, not the norm.

 

She remained confident. Gabriel Reyes, right?  _ Reyes,  _ as in  _ kings. _

 

Widowmaker chuckled. One more ting to add to her kill list.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Hana'd never noticed it until now, but there was something disquieting – oppressive, even -, in knowing that thousand of cubic meters of rock were right above her head. For Talon, the underground base was a blessing, the perfect hiding place, outfitted with everything it could possibly need to remain impossible to find: Hana saw nothing but a gargantuan coffin, waiting to be filled and then sealed forever.

 

She didn't care. It was a ghastly thought, but _she didn't care_. She wanted to be free, wanted to find herself as far away as possible from this hell. They could all die, crushed under tons of rock, _she didn't care._

 

Her pilot suit felt uncomfortable, her helmet heavy, the drugs in her system caustic and painful. All the better to keep her on edge. The plan could be sprung at any moment, and she had to be ready. She hated the thought of helping Talon once more, but if it was necessary to claim her freedom – _she didn't care._

 

A routine mission – she'd simply serve as the pilot, bringing an agent in and then out. _She didn't care._

 

***

 

«Agent Widowmaker, may I borrow your attention for a minute?» 

 

The voice was cold and cutting, and so familiar that she wanted to spin around and rip that bitch's tongue right out at the instant it reached her ears. She resisted the compulsion to freeze on the spot and slowly turned around to face the bespectacled woman – her sharp, blue glare from behind the glasses was simmering with studied contempt. Widowmaker crossed her arms over her chest, shifting her posture subtly to return all of it. «Yes?»

 

Two men armed with machine guns escorted her. Standard procedure, but there was a nervousness in the manner their extended index fingers hovered over the trigger that told her much more than they thought it did. They dreaded the possiblity of shooting, and they wanted to do it before the other side.

 

A slight twitch at the corner of Dr. Markovic's mouth. «You are well aware of our opinion concerning your... collaborations with our prime subject. You know we judge the results to be unsatisfying.» She spoke with an absolute calmless and uniformity in her tone that even _she_ found to be disquieting.

 

Widowmaker scoffed. «Thank you for confirming my itch, then. I was never happy having to babysit the _brat_ , anyways.» 

 

Markovic smirked. «This issue could be solved simply by assigning another agent to the subject's monitoring, which we have already done. However, careful analysis of our data has revealed another worrying fact...»

 

The sound of two pairs of boot-clad feet walking in near-perfect unison behind her. Growing in volume, louder and louder, then suddenly stopping at their peak. She could feel the breathing on her neck, and the displacement of air as they leveled their weapons on her.

 

«It seems as though you have undergone an important change in personality. As a scientific mind, I must admit a great deal of shame in knowing the neural conditioning I personally oversaw presents some weaknesses, some blind spots... However, this new knowledge and our experience reconditioning Hana Song has allowed us to create new protocols.» A half-smirk came to Markovic's lips, the kind one allowed themselves when their opponent had made the mistake that'd guarantee them complete victory two seconds later.

 

 _Two_ seconds. It took her only one.

 

«Far better than what we'd attempted before, certainly. You'll have the honor of being a living proof of their efficiency-»  

 

The grappling hook shot out, aimed for Markovic's torso. Widowmaker dove to the ground, reaching for her rifle, her momentum bringing Markovic down along with her. Markovic hit the floor with a yelp, her reflexes utterly overwhelmed by the speed of the attack: the men of her escort themselves were bringing their guns up to fire, but Widowmaker's rifle was already levelled on the two standing behind her.

 

One, two, three bullets. The neck of the man on the left exploded into gory mush. Four, five, six – each of them found a weakness in the body armor, and the man on the right fell. One swift, circular motion, a spiral of death to eliminate everything below ground.

 

One of the two survivors yelled something. Their guns were trained in her direction before she could do the same, but Markovic was on the ground, in the way of a clear shot, and they hesitated one instant too late.

 

Widowmaker continued her spiral – seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven -, and they too died.

 

One second, four kills. Was that a new record? She'd never liked keeping track of such things. Perhaps she would, now that her business had changed. There couldn't be that many Talon cockroaches to crush underfoot.

 

She allowed another second to pass, listening for anything other than the echo of the gunfire. Nothing too close. Good thing her rifle wasn't too noisy.

 

A slight feeling of pain came to her face when a hand clawed at her cheek. _Oh, right._

 

A quick application of her rifle's butt to Markovic's face brought the prober in line, writhing on the floor as blood gushed from her broken nose.

 

None of the agents' weapons could supplant her own, but she took zipties – most likely brought for her.

 

Now that she had the situation under control, they could resume their conversation. «A _personality change_ , you say? What clued you in?» she deadpanned, grabbing Markovic by the collar and pulling her back up. The woman's arms were tied behind her back in an instant.

 

She attempted to scream, but her captor's cold, metallic hand gagged her before her blood-drenched mouth could let out a sound. As she saw the amused air in Widowmaker's eyes and the carnivorous smile stretching her lips, it dawned on Aleksandra Markovic that her life at this instant wasn't of much value – and that Widowmaker was ready to spend it at a moment's notice.

 

Another quick movement, and the steel chain of Widowmaker's grappling hook was wrapped around her windpipe like a noose. «Make a noise and I break your neck. I'll tear your head clean off if it means they won't be able to fix you.» Her voice'd sloped into a harsh hiss, and she tightened the chain for an instant, just to get the point across.

 

Right. She'd have hoped for more time, but they'd forced her hand, and so the time had come to get creative. They'd discover the corpses soon enough – in a few seconds if she was unlucky, a minute in case of a miracle -, and she doubted it'd take long for the entire base to zero in on her once they did. As she switched her Infra-sight on, a handful of ghostly silhouettes appeared in her red-tinted vision, each behind several walls.

 

Good thing she'd planned a little distraction in advance. She fired her Venom mine at the ground, hidden by one of the corpses – a simple way to slow down whoever'd happen upon them.

 

Widowmaker pushed her hostage forward. In perfect circumstances, she'd have been left alone with Markovic, in a room full of everything one could think of to inflict pain on another human being, and as much time as she needed to gorge on her own catharsis until she vomited: but circumstances weren't perfect, so this'd have to do.

 

«Do you know a kind of person I like killing? The ones who think nothing can reach them. They believe they have their own safety all figured out, every detail ironed out perfectly, every angle covered, they think they're one step ahead of every killer out there - It's always hilarious when a bullet goes through their brain. They die looking so lost and confused... I never get tired of it.»

 

A red silhouette appeared, slightly to the right, moving to the left so as to step through a doorway to the corridor. Her rifle followed it through the wall, squarely aimed at the outline of the head: she fired her rifle at the precise instant nothing but air stood between the canon of her weapon and her target. A head exploded into a shower of gore – they resumed walking before the body even hit the ground.

 

Markovic squirmed in her grasp, futilely trying to bite the hand muzzling her, her teeth meeting nothing but metal. But the machine she'd programmed was far stronger than she could ever hope to be. _Abject terror. Good._

 

«Like this man... But there's one type of person I like killing even more, my favorite. Those who think they're above the rest. That it's almost a fact of nature that death's only going to happen to everyone else, but not them. They love seeing it happen to other people, they love experimenting, even. What they show on their face when life leaves them...»

 

She whispered. «...I wonder what it'd be for you.»

 

_Pain. Why was she feeling pain?_

 

Something cold and liquid was trickling down her midsection. Widowmaker looked down. A hole in her abdomen, circled by burnt skin. The four bastards, they'd shot her, and she was leaving a trail of blood drops behind.

 

_Damnit._

 

***

 

Couldn't they look over her plane quicker?

 

The gaze of the black-robed man was hidden by his mask, but she could tell it was fixated on her, two unseen eyes piercing through her like blades. The man she knew only as Reaper stood in the hangar, arms crossed over his chest – Hana only had a vague idea of his exact rank within Talon, but it was obvious he held a position of authority. Once in a while, someone'd make a beeline for him, say a few words – he barely seemed to acknowledge his interlocutors, and would send them off with the same monotone, subterranean rattle.

 

Was he gauging her as a potential colleague? Had he seen through the ruse and waited for her next move, just so he could crush her underfoot once and for all? Was he even looking at her at all? It was lucky that her pilot helmet shielded her features from view, because that man terrified her.

 

Another man came to Reaper: far quicker, and far more winded. Four killed, gunfire, Aleksandra Markovic was missing, they didn't know who. Reaper's answer was something she could only identifiy as a growl of cold fury, vaguely modulated to sound like a sentence, then he turned towards the team checking the planes. **«No plane leaves before I allow it!** _ **Nobody**_   **comes anywhere near them!»** he barked, gesturing for three agents to follow him.

 

_ Widowmaker. _ Her muscles tightened.

 

Instinctively, she knew, without a shadow of doubt – the moment had come, and with it the time for action. She couldn't wait for her instructions: capitalizing on it was the key, she had to jump aboard one of the planes, kick it into full gear as quick as she could, and  _ get away from this place _ , Widowmaker had a plan to rejoin her-

 

She tempted a movement. A crushing pressure envelloped her shoulder – all oxygen left her lungs in a pained gasp. Reaper.  _ Reaper was here, grabbing her, stopping her from moving, how had he moved so fast, she hadn't even looked away- _

 

Reaper's mask turned in her direction. For one instant, he looked her over from from head to toe, his concealed glare lingering on her as his grip tightened even more.  **«You're coming along,»** he rasped, his voice carrying an hint of sadistic mirth. Reaper's other hand oh-so-discreetly reached for the inside of his coat, and she caught the sinister gleam of his instruments of death.  **«As a** _**safety** _ **.»**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's way bigger than usual to make up for the huge hiatus. This'll all wrap up soon, people! A sequel's already in the works.

The blue glow of the countless screens bathed the circular space in a stark, pallid light. Reaper's presence was enough to impose a thick cover of silence over the control room, words refusing to be voiced and fingers typing with absurd quietness - The black-clad man's dangerousness permeated every one of his movements, yet there was something in his utter calmness that almost belied it. Almost. He had killed dozens if not hundreds, and the precise nature of his powers eluded Talon's agents just like it eluded Hana - except perhaps those even higher in rank than himself.

He'd bluntly ordered her to sit down on the nearest chair, while two agents went to guard the door, ready to open fire. Reaper stood next to her, arms crossed over his chest, patiently waiting at the heart of the facility for updates on the situation. His stillness was unnerving.

She took a deep breath, and spoke. "Why am I waiting for here? We're losing time." Her tone was cold and cutting, like it was supposed to be.

The shift in Reaper's posture was imperceptible. "Because..." He let the word vibrate through the air and into her gut. "...I know what she is up to. And you are a part of it. Did you believe no one'd notice your little game? Talon's brass may be in denial, but I am not. Didn't even consider the possibility of her turning against them, didn't even plan for that possibility. Cretins."

She remained motionless, eyes gaping wide, a cold sweat beading on her brow.

He knew. The man once called Gabriel Reyes leaned in towards her, grabbing her jaw into his gauntleted hand. He planted his eyeless stare into her own eyes. Breathing became difficult. "Were it up to me, I'd have already shot you both. No risk worth taking. But Talon wants you both alive, and they're in charge of my paycheck, so I'll play along. I don't know if you're even aware of her plan."

He didn't let go. His grip was ironclad, his touch cold and withering. "Are you?"

Absolute silence. She looked past Reaper's shoulder - even the three men manning the control room had stopped staring at their screens to look at them. Her eyes met theirs: she found some strenght in this, and her youthful features hardened while her eyes came back to the skull-shaped mask.

"Let. Go. You can bet the "cretins" won't be happy when they learn about that. Because they will. I don't think they gave you the authority to harm me as you please." She sent a pointed glance towards the three men.

Two seconds passed. Then Reaper rasped a sinister chuckle. "Correct." He let go of her jaw, turning back towards the wall of screens. "Any new intel?"

The man sitting in the center replied after a second of hesitation. The other two turned around again, all too happy to be substracted from Reaper's attention. "Well, we... None of the cameras have picked her up, we're just finding a trail of corpses, and, hum... No news of the hostage. She must be using a cloak or some kind." He cleared his throat. "A team's been sent to Sector 6. That's the only place she can be. They're, uh... proceeding with caution as we speak."

Sector 6. The warehouse. Even she knew that much. From there, she could see the cogs of Reaper's mind whirring. "Sector 6."

\- Yes.  
\- Does Markovic have clearance to access the confidential contents of the warehouse?  
\- Well, yes, as the head researcher, she has exclusive-  
\- Has it been revoked?  
\- We...

In one breath, Reaper sucked all air out and of the room. His voice rumbled with barely-contained fury. "She's been taken hostage and you haven't revoked it?"

Something shifted in the wall of screens, a subtle blur accompanied by a burst of static, almost an electronic spasm.

***

The black box was heavy in her hands, a thick cube of airtight, transparent material. Devoid of anything like an opening or a lock, and resistant enough to withstand... more or less anything.

Inside of it, a small blue construction, a dodecahedron to be precise, floating in the middle of the box, each of its edges emitting a faint golden light. One of the faces sported a sun-like sigil, aglow with the same light - it was funny, how such a pretty little thing could engender such destruction, beyond what even herself could ever hope to achieve.

She grabbed her quantic skeleton key - both a rarity and worth a fortune on the black market, improbably difficult to build and illegal more or less everywhere, so precious those lucky enough to own one never dared use them. There was nothing one of these couldn't hack if you got them in close proximity. It was just a small black thing, easily mistaken for one of these old USB flash drives no one used anymore. She stuck the key to the transparent surface, rapidly typed what she had to type, and let it work its magic. Five minutes, tops. That's what they'd told her.

She activated her visor again, and turned back towards the metallic gate. No silhouettes in sight, at least not yet. Markovic's limp body was slowly losing its body heat, right in front of the gate.

What had she done, once she'd outlived her usefulness as her entry ticket? It was simple, really. She'd tightened the steel chain around her neck. Until she couldn't breathe. Until it dug into her flesh and made her bleed. A little like what'd happened to Gérard - not the mercy of a broken neck. Then she'd slumped over. Her neck was bent at a strange angle.

Killing made her feel alive. Never more than when she'd had this life at her mercy. It was ghastly, but for a welcoming gift back to the world of the living, she felt it as oddly appropriate.

The world of the living... Perhaps she was wrong on that count. The bullet wound irradiated pain throughout her midsection, a pain she found harder to ignore with each passing second. Her neutered blood flow had the advantage of slowing the bleeding down considerably - with nothing to stem it, though, it'd eventually be a problem. The infirmary was far, very far. She'd have to roll with it.

No time to mull over this. She needed to stay on her guard.

She didn't know how long it took, but eventually a click came from behind her, and she smirked to herself.

_Perfect, little goddess. Let's wreck some havoc._

***

The screens and the lights went black, plunging the control room into darkness. "What's this?" Reaper asked, his voice quivering with the same anger.

A few seconds of frantic typing did nothing to turn them back on. "Probably nothing, we'll, uh... we'll contact the technical team. Nothing... important." The next second proved the man wrong more thoroughly than any word could ever do.

A sun-like sigil appeared on the screens, blue in color with golden edges. It pulsated slowly, as if animated by an independant heartbeat. "What the hell is-"

"Astarte. The God Program." The flatness in Reaper's tone was disturbing. Then, under his breath: " _You fucking bitch_."

They knew what it meant. All of them. They'd worked to get a hold of one, so they knew what it was capable of. Taking over the screens and killing the lights were just a warmup, some specks of dust falling down as the god came back to life and stretched its limbs.

Nothing a handful of hackers and other tech-savvy terrorists could in any way stand up to. This they knew as well. One of the men rose up from his seat, but Reaper's gaze kept him from moving an inch more.

Every new second brought another information, and with every second panic settled in further into the room. Nothing that was even part of the base's infrastructure would respond. Radio communication was more difficult by the instant. More and more systems were corrupted, then fell under the control of the God Program.

The deactivated Omnics kept in the base for study and potential future use - Bastion units were old technology, but the dozens of millions lives they'd claimed spoke for themselves - were reactivating themselves, one by one. A distinct air of panic penetrated the room, but Reaper's presence was enough to keep everyone bolted down to their current position. "...Sombra. Where is she?" he asked after a moment of thought.  
\- She's on a mission in Mexico, and I don't think we could- we could reach her in time...  
\- Right. None of you tech-heads can do a thing. Brilliant.

Sombra. She'd heard the name a handful of times. Talon's top hacker, a computer wizard in the purest sense of the word. She'd never seen her in person, but judging by what others had stated, even god programs could find a match in her.

Something ressembling a sigh escaped Reaper's lips. He seemed to think for another moment, then he turned back towards the door. "I have to do everything myself, don't I? You stay here. The girl does not go anywhere unless I allow it." The dark silhouette vanished through the doorway, followed by six pairs of eyes. "Tin cans. It's been a _while_."

***

One of the Bastion unit's greatest weaknesses, and indeed what had led to humanity's victory against it, was the ease with which it could be outmaneuvered in open spaces. Mobility had been sacrificed for firepower, making redeployment difficult in quickly-changing combat situations.

But the smaller, utilitarian hallways and rooms of the base negated this flaw, and turned them into walls of metal that could soak up small arms fire and return it tenfold. Frontal combat was suicidal, and even cover became useless as their gatling guns chewed through walls like tissue paper.

She watched the onslaught from a safe distance, swiftly slipping behind the machines, advancing step by step. Astarte's endeavour was obvious - eliminating all human life from the base, then working towards spreading its tentacles further. How god programs operated, more or less - and it was doing a good job of it.

Right. She could use this panic to snatch the brat and fly away. It was risky, insane almost. But her hand'd been forced - it was that, or nothing. The brat couldn't have pulled it off on her own, could she?

_Who was she trying to persuade?_

She'd wanted to see this base go up in flames. Only one amongst others that Talon ran, but it'd be a start. What else did she have to live for, what else did she have to look forward to? Freedom, and then what? Vengeance was the only logical objective. They deserved to die, all of them, for what they'd done to her, for what they'd done to Gérard. Maybe she deserved to die, too, for what she'd done. Maybe she wanted to die. Maybe it was the reason why she'd unleashed Astarte on this base. Her mind was struggling against itself, her body as well. Her heart was trying to break out of its physiological camisole and beat faster, she could feel it.

***

The Hellfire shotgun fired point-blank with the sound of a metal coffin slamming shut. The Bastion's head exploded into a shower of metallic chunks. Reaper fired again, for good measure. His right arm whipped out, levelling his other shotgun at the Omnic following the first one. Four rapid shots, and it was lying on the ground, with four gaping holes in its armor. He let go of his weapons - the shotguns hit the floor with a loud thunk.

Footsteps, further down the hallway, then he caught sight of a blue silhouette dashing across his vision.

_Saves me the effort._

***

The base was lost. As the sound of gunfire drew closer and closer, sometimes accompanied by explosions further away, it became obvious that waiting any longer was nothing but simple suicide. A message was sent over the radio, to whoever'd hear it and if the God Program didn't stop it - an emergency evacuation was taking place, the chain of command be damned.

A flow of agents, guards, researchers and technicians poured into the hangar, with only the barest of discipline. The Omnics'd thinned out their numbers already, and some of them remained trapped behind gates sealed shut by the base's new master - there was more than enough room for everyone still alive or present in the helicopters and planes outfitting the hangar, and yet they still managed to walk over each other. Half-full helicopters took off as soon as a panicked pilot took the commands, disappearing into the round, wide tunnel that constitued the base's runway. Planes barely avoided collisions as their pilots all tried to escape first from the doomed base.

Hana arrived there, escorted by her two guards - they'd obeyed their orders as long as they possibly could have, and so were amongst the last ones to reach the hangar. The urge to jump in one of the aircrafts and flee was strong. That was what Widowmaker had cooked up as an escape plan? No need for anger - for the moment, it was working. The narrow interval of time that'd allow for its success was getting narrower by the second, however, and she could feel her heart sinking into her chest more every instant.

But she had to wait. Widowmaker wasn't there. They'd turn their weapons on her if they saw her, so she'd have to wait for everyone else to be gone. She'd risked her life and identity for her sake - Hana refused to commit one more betrayal.

She stopped in her tracks. The guards continued on for another couple of feet, then turned back. She couldn't see their features behind their helmet, but she could guess they were bewildered. A couple of seconds passed. Both parties remained immobile. "The hell are you doing?" One of them stepped forward, lightly grabbing her by the wrist. "We have no time to fuck around! Get into that heli, move!"

She easily broke free of his grasp - obviously, he wasn't going to crush the wrist of Talon's most prized new toy. In that span of time, she cooked what sounded like a decent excuse in her mind and brought her voice to the correct pitch. "We have to wait for agent Reaper. I doubt he can fly one of these."

"He can handle himself. He's immortal, for god's sake, not like he's in danger! Come the hell on!" The man attempted to grab her again - she stepped back, and reached for her hip in one swift movement.

Her light gun was levelled at him, the cannon aimed at the center of his mass. "Back off." She saw the man's index finger move towards his rifle's trigger. For one instant, she intensely regretted her decision.

"They really fuck up your brain, don't they?" the man commented, taking a step backwards. He sounded almost... sympathetic, for a moment. He turned back, gesturing for the other to follow him to the nearest plane.

Soon, she found herself alone. The thrusters of the last plane to depart echoed in the empty space of the hangar, headed god knew where. Finding a hiding spot behind the small, stealthy plane she'd selected for her escape, she waited, waited, kept waiting for what she perceived like an eternity. It felt like the heavy footfalls of the Omnics were drawing closer with every instant, shaking the ground itself-

The clanking of someone sprinting on a solid floor. She recognized Widowmaker's distinctive footsteps, and peeked out from her hiding place.

***

Something cold and sharp ran down Amélie's spine when the dark mist traversed her body, coalescing ahead of her into a humanoid shape. The whisps materialized into a gauntleted hand first, one aimed right at her throat. A gasp escaped her lips as she was effortlessly strangled, lifted off the ground like she was made of hay.

Reaper's silhouette grew denser, more recognizable. Before her threw her across the open space of the hangar, she caught a glance of his true visage. She hit the ground, on her back, painfully. _Strong_. She'd known he was strong, but not that much. By some miracle, she held on to her rifle. That'd have been enough to incapacitate a normal human, but not her.

"We can let this base fall for now. We'll deal with it later... You are more important, right this moment." he croaked mockingly. He reached into his coat to whip out a shotgun, lazily letting it rest on his shoulder as he commenced his slow advance on her. Reflexes kicked in. She aimed her rifle at his chest. Held down the trigger. The bullets that hit Reaper did little to slow him down - he almost relished them, because it proved just how little she could do against him.

He continued to advance, speaking plainly. "They need you alive, both of you. That doesn't mean intact." She reloaded, continued to fire, with little effect. "Always said it. Should have gone all the way and replaced those."

The Hellfire shotgun fired with a horrific roar. She braced for impact, but she wasn't ready for it. Her calf exploded into horrendous pain and mutilated flesh. For the first time she could remember, Amélie screamed.

Reaper chuckled. He took a few instants to aim at her other leg.

Something hit him from behind. Then again. The shock was violent, but it barely managed to shake his powerful frame. He glanced behind him, and a lucky shot caught him in the mask, punching his head backwards and crackling the white, smooth surface.

Hana, shooting at him from behind one of the jets. So his instincts hadn't lied to him, them. No matter. He could deal with her later, she was barely a threat. He fired a shot in her direction, purposefully missing her, and she jumped back to her hiding spot. Smart girl.

Another bullet reached his mask. This time far more powerful, and the left side of his head burst into a sickening mix of red and black. He looked back. Widowmaker, aiming down the scope of her rifle, the weapon already charging up for another high-powered shot. Stupid of him to allow distractions to get in the way. Reaper whipped around, levelling his shotgun at her and reaching for the other inside his coat.

Her grappling hook shot out, reaching for the countless beams near the hangar's high ceiling. The volley of superheated pellets struck where she'd lied an instant ago. Amélie swung in a half-crescent, Reaper's head in the middle of her trajectory - she aimed her kick at the hole she'd punched in the side of his head. Her unharmed leg whipped out.

Something between the gargle and the growl of fury escaped from the bloodied mass, and she knew that'd hurt. She continued her course, reeling herself towards the ceiling, at a range where she had the upper hand.

Pain or no, he barely flinched. Without looking, he fired where he thought she'd be, missed by an inch at most. From her new vantage point, Amélie aimed, pulled the trigger, saw Reaper's shape turn into mist the microsecond before another bullet hit him. Her calf... No, she wouldn't consider that. It was worse than she imagined, most likely.

The mist rose up in thin gazeous arms, slightly more slowly, fighting against gravity to reach the ceiling. She had no chance up close, that she knew. He could blow a hole into her with a single shot, that she knew. She couldn't kill him, she couldn't even hope to harm him on the long run - but she could injure him enough that he couldn't maintain his form anymore.

The mist coalesced before her. She guessed the distinctive outline of his shotgun.

Amélie dropped backwards from her perch. She felt the sheer mass of warm air displaced by the weapon's shot lick her face. Took a moment to aim. She caught him in the chest, just as he took form again. Another furious growl as his back erupted into blood, and another grin for her. She could make him fall into her pace. The grappling hook shot again. She calculated her trajectory so that she'd land right next to the plane - then they'd be able to slip away right then and there-

Something tugged at the steel chain violently, altered her trajectory at the last second. Her brain registered a strange noise coming from her shoulder, then she met the ground. Then another explosion of pain, all over her back.

***

He landed on the ground with a loud thud, a few meters away from her. Gloating before a victory'd always been one of his guilty pleasures: he let out a low gurgle of a chortle, taking a step in her direction. He couldn't see very well - couldn't complain, any other man'd have been dead. "Don't you worry, you won't die. But I'll make you wish you were." His voice was so distorted and corrupted as to be nearly uncomprehensible to anyone else. He left blood and dark smoke billowing behind him with every step, spliced together in a grotesque mix. _It hurt_. But no more than it always did.

Bringing her in alive didn't matter anymore. His unbrindled bloodlust was singing a sweet song to his ear, and he cared for nothing more than listening. _Victory_.

Light footfalls, behind him. He spun around, swinging the five pounds of heavy metal of his shotgun in a wide arc to stop the brat in the middle of her course.

***

Hana dodged. A reflex - had they implanted it in her? - kicked in, and she ducked under the blow. She maintained her momentum, pushed on her knees, locked every bone into place - and jumped.

Her light body met Reaper's like a brick wall. She ignored the shock, reached for anything she could hold on to - she got his bandolier, an unstable but easy point of anchoring. _She reaffirmed her grip on the light gun. Jabbed it into the hole at the side of his head. Then held down the trigger harder than she'd ever had._

_She remembered doing something like this, sometime before. Ducking under a weapon, jumping, grabbing, firing point-blank into a weak point. This came from herself. She remembered how it'd ended, too. Not today._

The recoil almost led her to drop the light gun - but she fired until the clip was empty. Reaper screamed, produced a noise too distorted to be called a voice. He dropped one of his weapons, and grabbed her: for an instant, she could see the grotesquely ravaged face of the man once called Gabriel Reyes, glaring at her from what remained of his left eye.

He threw her, and she hit the side of the plane, punching every parcel of air out of her lungs - her metallic spine covering weathered the blow, keeping it from being snapped outright. _She had to move, she needed to move_ -

***

Pure, unbrindled rage had taken over any trace of reason left in him. In the haze of his fury, he dropped his other weapon. He could only barely see the outline of the things around him, blinded by a venomous hatred seething amidst his lungs, expectorating fire with every expiration. His posture lowered, black smoke rising from his hunched-over silhouette, ressembling a feral wolf far more than a human.

_With his hands. He'd rip her apart, until nothing of that pile of mutilated flesh and sinew could be identified as human._

Something shuffled, to the left of him. He didn't care.

***

The Hellfire Shotgun's fire deafened every other sound. Reaper's chest exploded into a geyser of red fluid, bone splinters and burning organs.

The sheer recoil blasted the gun out of Amélie's hands, and she herself was projected backwards, slamming back-first on the ground, drawing a groan of pain out of her. She didn't try to move. Either that had worked, or she was left at his mercy, her gun empty, too injured to oppose meaningful resistance - in simpler words, dead.

***

_Why?_

His clothes vanished into black vapor, his fingers feebly trying to hold on to them - then it was his fingers' turn to vanish, his bones powerless to retain the muscles and skin around them.

_Why? Why_ this _?_

He let out a roar, part anger, part hatred, part desperation. _Ziegler_. Always bloviating about peace and benevolence. Yet... she'd left him like this.

His legs gave out from underneath him. The dark smoke dispersed into whisps, and his consciousness with it.

***

Hana remained motionless for a second, perhaps longer, as the man in front of her dissolved into nothingness. A cough shook Amélie's frame, kicking her back into reality. She dashed at her side - was that worry she felt? Yes, it was. Worry for her freedom, or for...? A red pool was growing underneath Amélie, her blue skin had taken a paler hue - and her eyes, they were staring at nothing, glassy and unfocused.

"Oh, god, are you... are you-"  
She coughed again, his eyes wandering around the lights of the ceiling before falling back on her. "No. Just... get me into that plane."

It took her an instant to process it, but she did what Amélie asked. Offering her her shoulder, serving as a crutch - she was both horrified and amazed that she could still stand, with one useless leg too. A brush of the hand resulted in the side of the plane opening and a ramp sliding to meet them - the slight slope took its toll on Amélie, but she powered through. Hana could feel Amélie's blood - _disturbingly cold_ \- dripping over her.

"...They're coming." A mechanical groan punctuated Amélie's sentence. Neither of them looked back - they knew what was coming. Bullets ricocheted off the plane's exterior, echoing in the small cockpit. Hana leaped to the command, followed what they'd taught her. Amélie opened the first aid kit, searching for some meager means of healing herself.

Thrusters at full speed. They entered the dimly-illuminated tunnel, speeding along the straight line. Her heart sunk into her chest for an instant when no light greeted her at the end of it - but then the world expanded in all directions, and all that envellopped her was the night. _Outside_.

Intense relief was not what she felt. She twisted her neck to get a look at Amélie - curled up into a sitting position, letting the biotic module do its slow, steady work. Superficial, but it helped people survive. "Where do you want me to go?" She supposed Amélie had planned a landing place. It only made sense, why wouldn't she?

Several seconds passed before she answered. "Annecy... Wait. What day... not of the week... what day is it?"  
\- November 8th, why?

Another second passed, and there was a quivering in Amélie's voice - pain, or something else - that she'd never heard before. "Then... Bordeaux. In France." She let out a long, shuddering breath. "Bordeaux."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Amélie moved through the streets of Bordeaux at a brisk pace, keeping close to the walls, artificial instincts and taught reflexes informing her of when to stop, when to walk, when to run. The cover of night was an ally, reducing her to a silhouette, hiding the blood covering her. The night was well and alive, but no one paid much attention to them.

Hana couldn't do much more than follow behind - Amélie had said nothing. Did she... not want her to follow? She did not slow down for her, did not indicate directions, did not say a word. It frustrated her, deeply.

Hana didn't understand, and Amélie refused to explain. She had told her that Annecy was her usual center of operations when she was out of the base, a safe landing point outfitted with all the gear she could possibly need - some of it unknown to Talon. A perfect place to recover while they planned their next move, at least for a moment, until Talon recovered and did the obvious thing by sending agent after them.

Yet, they'd gone to Bordeaux. Why? Amélie's wounds were serious, and the first aid kit from their plane couldn't do much more than heal the most superficial damage, stalling time until proper care was applied. No hospital would have taken Amélie in and not raised a fuss. As for herself...

163 days. She'd been gone for 163 days. The date of her abduction, then the date of today, then a simple calculation to unearth that information. The days hadn't mattered while she was a captive, no sun had been there to mark the passage of time as she'd been prisoner of that base. Afterwards... They'd made her a tool. Tools didn't need to know the time of the day. 163 days. That meant... She was twenty years old, now. "Happy birthday, me." she whispered to herself.

People... they couldn't have forgotten about her, could they? Maybe it'd have been better if they had. She couldn't even start to imagine what her disappearance had brought to the world at large, beyond the obvious. Her reappearance... It was the same thing. Something welled up in her throat. She was afraid - every dark corner seemed to be home to another robed shape, everything seemed to make the air echo with a subterranean rattle. He wasn't there, he couldn't be there. She'd seen him die.

The modern streets gave way to sole-beaten pavement, and soon they found themselves in front of a gate flanked by two smaller metal doors, the only entry through a high wall of old stones stretching far to her left and right. She could guess the shape of a cross above the gate.

Amélie approached the door on the left, seemed to hesitate for an instant, spun on her heels to face her. "Do you know what sort of place this is?" Her voice shuddered, from fatigue, from pain, perhaps from something else too.

Before Hana could formulate her answer, she continued. "No, it doesn't matter... What matters is, you have a choice to make, now." She could feel Amélie's gaze on her, the way her fevered eyes nailed themselves into her.

"You can step away. Go in the streets, tell anyone who you are, call the police. You'll return to your normal life, and you won't hear from me or Talon or any of this ever again. You go back to your games and whatever it is you do. They'll fix you, fix your brain, fix your body, fix you back into the brat you are. If you can still believe... in a normal life. If you can look the people you know in the eyes." It was harsh, unbelievably harsh. The words cut deep, and she felt her throat tighten once more.

"Or you follow me in here. If we're lucky, a different way opens for us. If we're not, you're stuck with the first option. But whatever happens... No quitting, no hesitating, no questions. I'm giving you a choice now, they didn't."

Harsh. But there was something almost reassuring in the knowledge that Amélie knew, Amélie understood, Amélie also had killed someone dear, Amélie had risked her life for little more than her sake. She could see beads of sweat forming on her brow as her shuddering breath rose into white spirals in the cold air. She was... fearful. Amélie could die, and she musn't. The appeal of normalcy fought against cowardice. She wanted to see those still alive, apologize until she couldn't anymore. But she was afraid. Afraid of what she'd see in their eyes, of what she'd see in her eyes.

Amélie coughed into her fist. Cowardice won.

Hana lowered her head and took a step forward. Something - a chuckle? A scoff? Another cough? - escaped Amélie's lips.

***

The rows of vertical slabs identified the place at the instant the door closed behind them. The cemetary didn't remain open at night, so it wasn't lit, but her eyes had adapted enough to the darkness to recognize them. A shudder ran down her spine. Why a graveyard? Before she could ask, Amélie moved.

Despite the opaque darkness, despite the near-impossibility of distinguishing one stone slab from another in the night, despite the sheer vastness of the place, Amélie walked with confidence. Hana followed - she couldn't allow herself not to focus on Amélie's back, one slip-up and she'd lose her. Statues of figures both heavenly and grotesque leapt out of the darkness, punctuating their walk, observing them with eyes of stone. Angels looking over the dead and the bereaved, skeletal figures brandishing their sights and laughing at the living.

Amélie's pace slowed down to a stop. The grave was simple - a granit headstone and white gravel, nothing more -, in the midst of a row, there was nothing notable about it. Hana couldn't make out the words in the darkness, but Amélie obviously knew. No matter how many frontiers of knowledge science managed to breach, few symbols remained as sobering in the human mind as an upwards slab of engraved stone.

Her eyes went between the headstone and Amélie then back again. It felt almost vulgar to talk, but she did so anyway. "Who is-"

"Gérard." Her voice rose to a softer pitch. "He'd always... hated cemetaries. Always told me he'd rather have put schools and hospitals in their place. He'd been at the funerals of too many good men and women, I think."

Gérard. Of course. How stupid of her to even wonder.

"I suppose... He wanted to give everyone a place to come together and remember him, something simple and quaint. Or maybe... His family wanted this. I remember, I-" Amélie's voice cracked. Her breathing, normally as silent and discreet as a statue's, grew loud and wheezy, her back undulating with every inspiration. "I got along so well with his sister, such a kind, funny woman, I loved her a lot. Every time he'd go on a mission, every time, she knew I was afraid and she came, just to be there, just to be a little reassuring and nice, and to repay her... I took her brother."

Amélie wept, trembling, shaken by something that Hana knew. She stepped closer, one hand reaching for Amélie's shoulder, searching for words but finding none. "Or maybe... maybe... Maybe I'm wrong, maybe none of this is true, maybe this is just a sick joke on their part. Maybe this is just me trying to make some sense out of what they left of me, trying to put the puzzle together, but there's no puzzle, so it's pointless. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know..." She repeated these three words, again and again, shielding her face from view with her arms and kneeling down on the ground, a human ball of unchecked grief and trauma that even herself couldn't hope to understand. She didn't know how long they remained here, motionless, Amélie crying and wailing until her lungs couldn't anymore, Hana waiting for her to calm down. A inconscient impetus compelled her arms to wrap themselves around Amélie - she was covered in blood, but it didn't matter. Nothing could bring back the dead, but she could bring Amélie a measure of simple human warmth.

Eventually, the words stopped, and Amélie took a few generous gulps of cold air between her desperate sobs. Her eyes found Hana, and for the first time, she saw something ressembling thankfulness in Amélie's bloodshot eyes. "Now, we wait here."

Hana shook her head. "You're injured!"

Amélie shook her head in turn. "I don't care. If I die, at least... I'll die with Gérard. They lowered my heartbeat, so I won't die from blood loss just like thar. We wait."

"For what?" Worry was making her tone cutting, and she regretted her words at the instant she uttered them.

"I said no questions. If I'm right, you'll get the second option. If I'm wrong, you're stuck with the first one. This is the only way you'll ever get another option." Amélie said, pulling away from her.

***  
The sound of gravel grinding underfoot woke her.

It was shameful, but observing Amélie's demeanor as she remained there, watching over her in front of the grave, was something that made dozing off easy. The very first rays of the morning sun bathed the graveyard in a pale light, stabbing through her closed eyelids. Amélie hadn't moved - was she...?

Gravel grinding underfoot. Someone.

Her heart bounced in her chest. Oh, no. This was bad. If the keeper found them, he'd call an ambulance - or even worse, the police -, and all of this would have been for nothing, it took her one second to identify the source of the footsteps.

One of the two women held a pulse pistol, the other a bouquet of well-wrapped flowers. A complex device on the chest of the first one emitted a blue light, immediately drawing her eyes to it. An expression of pure disbelief was painted on their features.

"...You've got to be kidding me."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally there, folks. Tune in for the sequel, coming soon on this very website.

"How did you know Lena and I would be here?"

"I didn't know anything. It was a bet, really. On the anniversary of his death... I thought one of you do-gooders would come, put some flowers on his grave. Out of principle. That's why you're predictable. And that's why Talon's one step ahead of you." The quiet humming of medical equipment gave the silence a dense quality. For a makeshit infirmary, it was impressively equipped - then again, it was run by one of the world's most brilliant scientific minds.

She didn't like this bed. Too hard, too cold, she barely had any room to move around. ' "That was a very poor bodyguard you had here, by the way. Even with me like this, she wouldn't have been a problem." Mostly she didn't like that they'd put a metal bracelet around both her wrists. She knew the purpose of those. One movement too quick and she'd find herself magnetized to the frame of the bed itself with enough strenght to immobilize an elephant.

Angela Ziegler looked up from her holographical pad, the light of the device making her eyes even bluer for an instant. A quick motion of her hand, and it remained immobile in the air, hovering at her side. "I see." Her tone was supremely professional and her questions were asked with impartiality, but Amélie could tell she was far from feeling calm. "What if this was another day? What was your plan then?"

A deep sigh escaped Amélie's lips, and she spent a few seconds staring at the ceiling. There was no need to keep her confined to a bed - the illustrious Dr. Ziegler had worked her magic, and her physiology had specifically been altered for recoveries to be quick. She knew why - they were still discussing what to do with her. "Laying low. Maybe... Try and use her to get myself a new name, new identity. Would have worked great, I bet, until the day a bullet went through my head when they'd have found me."

"From what you said, however... This sounds like a severe blow to Talon. They lost a lot of men, a base, plus three of their best operatives-"

"Two."

"Hmm?"

"Two."

Angela sent her a quizzical look, Amélie didn't see fit to explain. "They'll take the base back. It'll take some time, but even a God program shouldn't be too big a fish to fry for her. Or they'll do it by force. They have more than enough freaks on their payroll to compensate for the loss. You really have no idea what Talon is capable of."

There. That had gotten under her skin, her eyes had opened just a little bit wider, the corner of her mouth had curled downwards on her cheek. She found Ziegler's unflappable stoicism at the bedside annoying beyond words, it felt like she was talking to a rock - nothing could surprise her, she took the most acerbic comments in stride while her expression didn't budge a millimeter. But that - the realization that the power of her enemy was something she was utterly ignorant of - didn't leave her unmoved. It felt good, getting a reaction out of that person, that made her feel alive, it was something that she found itself enjoying that was not murder.

She hated these machines, hated these tubes going into her veins, hated every blinking light and glowing screen, hated that Angela Ziegler walked around her bed while they'd confined her to it, hated that white laboratory coat that she wore as if she was some kind of angel, hated this sense of moral superiority she showed with every moment.

Silence fell between the two women for what felt like an eternity. Amélie was the one to break it. "Why did you abandon everything to join... this? Don't you have orphans to rescue and feed somewhere? What about your charity?"

"I have great trust in my collaborators. My charity, as you call it, is run by competent hands and I'm only one part of it. They'll manage without me." she replied, typing something else on her pad as it hovered in the air, following her as she walked around to the other side of the medical bed. "Your condition is stable. I expect a complete recovery in two days, three at the most. We'll decide where to go from there." she added, with a tone that made it quite clear that she expected this to be the last sentence of their conversation. A flick of the wrist, and the pad gently floated down to a nearby table occupied with other instruments. She headed for the door, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her with every step.

"How's the brat?"

Angela stopped, but didn't turn around. "Stable." She was under no obligation, moral or otherwise, to say anything more.

"That's vague. I'm the one reason you managed to get ahold of her, I think I deserve to know a little more."

Angela spun on her heels. A few seconds passed before she gave her answer. "She's been through a lot. She suffered from mild dehydration, fatigue and severe stress when we got her, and that's child's play to treat. But beyond this... Our psychological assessment has barely begun, and we ignore the extent of Talon's... modifications on her. That's all I can share."

"Would it be even possible to remove that thing they put in her back?"

"If they've grafted it in, then it logically should be removable with surgery. We don't know the exact risks involved in such an operation - yet. The information we are working with is incomplete for the moment."

A shadow of inner fury passed on Amélie's features. "They butchered her without considering how they'd remove it if they needed to. I knew it. Enfoirés!" She clenched her fists until her knucles whitened. Nothing but a band of butchers, toying with lives and bodies and minds like insane children mutilating their toys.

Angela sighed. That was... a fairly concise way of putting it, yes. "On the brighter side... We have managed to narrow down the composition of the product they gave her." She took her pad in hand, scrolling through a long list of chemical products with even longer names. Her peaceful features wrinkled into an expression of disgust. "It's... one hell of a cocktail, for sure. Including things no one sane would inject into a human body. Things no body should need. Things to make sure her body needs it anyway. But this is damage we can fix. It might be difficult, but she'll pull through."

Amélie closed her eyes. "Good."

"As for you, there are limits to what I can do here, but... Genetic therapy could help. I do not know how extensive the modifications they've made on you are, but like before, we most likely could reverse-"

"I don't care. Don't bother wasting your time thinking about reversing this."

Angela sent her a look of pure beffudlement, so she saw fit to explain herself.

"This..." She outstretched her fingers, feeling the strenght coiled inside every muscle. "...Is a gift. A tool. The most wonderful tool they could have ever given me. They graced me with a talent for killing no training could give me. I'm one of the best assassins the world has ever seen. Why would I refuse that gift, now that I have my mind back? There's nothing worse than talent going to waste."

Angela's expression conveyed her horror better than any word could. Poor self-righteous little Angela Ziegler. She'd seen and stopped so much suffering in her life, yet her heart remained soft. "Amélie..."

"Amélie... It's good, being Amélie again." She seemed to savor that name being said by another tongue, for an instant. "But Amélie is useless. She's weak and scared, she can't hold a rifle or put a bullet between someone's eyes from a mile away. Widowmaker... she can, it's easy for her."

"Didn't Overwatch fight for justice? What's more just than destroying Talon with what they've created? I'll scrub them off the face of the Earth, one by one. Widowmaker can do this. Amélie can't. You need Widowmaker. I need Widowmaker. You can find me another name, you can try to stop me. But it's what I'm going to do. I have nothing else but this."

Angela hesitated. Poor little Angela Ziegler, unable to find the words to try and break yet another cycle of hatred and revenge, because deep down she knew there was truth in Amélie's words. She was about to leave the room again when Amélie's dispassionate tone chimed in once more. "About earlier... Talon only lost the brat and me. That makes two. Reaper's still around. It'll take him time to recover, yes. But he's survived worse."

***

In a forest somewhere, there existed a creature. A small, sickly, weak thing, almost too diffuse for the eye to see, but it existed, it was there, even if it was nothing more than a pathetic cloud of black smoke, for which even a slight gust of wind was a threat.

A hand materialized, wrapping skeletal fingers around the throat of even even smaller, weaker, white creature. It squeaked, squeaked, squeaked again. The fingers tightened, but their grip alone wasn't strong enough to end the small animal's life. Anger swelled within the creature, it was weak, but it had once been mighty, it detested being weak. Another hand materialized, wrapped itself around the head, made a twisting motion. Something inside the creature creaked, and it stopped moving.

The creature felt the animal's energy and warmth being absorbed into it, it felt its weight decreasing in its hands. But this was nothing, it needed more, so much more, so much that it became difficult to imagine. The sense known as vision sent images of its carry to its mind, and it saw what the animal was.

A white rabbit.

Somewhere, deep within the woods, a wheezing, raspy chortle escaped a creature's small, sickly, and minutely stronger body.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here's my first attempt at an OW fic. I know it's a bit description and brainfart-heavy, so give me feedback! 
> 
> Also: I know D.Va's mech might not be exactly like it is in the game, but that's mostly for the sake of the story.


End file.
